Nearly every morning after breakfast, I sit on my sofa and read. The sun shines blindingly through a large window facing east. It creeps from the white tufted ottoman / storage bench where I prop my feet, inches up my legs, and eventually settles on my hands, arms, torso, and face. Here, I drink my coffee. Here, I warm my soul.
Usually, I’m reading poetry. Sometimes, I’m inspired to write. When it gets too hot, I’ll move over to the two-person dining table, and if the morning is long enough, I’ll move back. Scattered about, I have fifteen or twenty volumes of poetry – each with a bookmark shoved into their spine. Most are first-time reads, new books from new-to-me authors or new books from old favorites: Robert Hass, Ada Limón, Stephen Dunn, Kim Addonizio, Andrea Gibson.
I like this morning ritual because it sets my mind adrift – frees me in ways that other things don’t. The mention of blue and red fish the shape of spoons makes me think of the fish tank my friend Ed had when we were little kids. How I loved the glow of the fluorescent lamp, the clear blue water, the tiny neon fish darting about. The poem about how trees appear and disappear as we cross state lines reminds me that I don’t see many maples or birches here on the west coast and I had never seen madrones or manzanitas back east. I pause pick up my phone, look at pictures of Eucalyptus trees, try to imprint them in my mind so I might recognize them in the wild. I make a mental note to identify the bushes currently blooming with fragrant, small white flowers by the tennis courts on the corner of Laguna. The poem about languages disappearing coupled with the sight of my neighbor hitting his vape reminds me that ten or fifteen years ago the verb vaping didn’t exist.
This type of thinking, this mental wandering feels so much more preferable to having my attention jerked about by headlines and outrage. We live in an era full of outrage.
Some mornings are more scattered than others. I’ll read, but I’ll want to write, but I won’t be able to settle on anything. I’ll waver between poetry and prose. I’ll read, but not be present in the text – eyes glossing over the words, moving across the page, nothing sinking in. This is when I’m most tempted to pick up my phone and check apps or scroll headlines on social media. I know this my brain looking for stimulation. I can feel its heavy boots wandering the hallway floor. This is when I’m tempted to take a walk – where I might re-center myself in the real world – watching the sea gulls as they squawk and land on the roof of the middle school; smelling the incense burning outside of the dry cleaners – always three sticks in a small tin can; watching the men in work gloves pulling hand-trucks loaded with food for the restaurants on Chestnut Street.
At some point, the day’s obligations creep in. During the week, it’s work tasks and sometimes errands. Is today the day I do laundry, get a haircut, log donations, go to the PO Box, get some groceries, follow up with that vendor about accident insurance. On weekends, it’s how I wish to spend my time in the sun – city hike, visit a park, sit by the water, find a patio bar, an artist pop-up market.
I’ve growing increasingly fond of a life without obligations, or at least one in which I’m a little more free to roam and ramble. When people ask me what I’d do if I were retired, I often think, I’d stretch my mornings well into the afternoon. I’d live modestly but be extravagant with my time. I’m not there yet, but I steal what moments I can.