Sunday mornings are definitely to be sought after and treasured. This is the belief that I have come up with after enjoying the hell out of this morning. It is now noon, so the morning is over, but it still continues. The peacefulness of it is hard to describe, but perhaps I can make you see if I tell you that there is no sound! No thumps, squeaks, doors closing, faint far-off music, car engines, children's voices or cats. Sitting in the living room with my second steaming cup of strong coffee and the Oregonian, all I could hear was the semi-synchronous ticking of several clocks from several rooms of the house. At one point, a pair of sirens, from, presumably a police car and an ambulance wound their way through the streets fairly close by, but when they died away, the peace returned. Looking out through my kitchen window as I brewed my second cup of steaming hot strong coffee, I could see no movement. No ducks, no seagulls, no people in the park, no cars in the parking lot through the trees. Nothing. And no sounds of them, either. I got up at seven-thirty, so I had nearly five hours of solitary peace and comfort and quiet. No phones ringing. No screen doors squeaking. No television muttering in the distance.
I was thinking, as I looked out the window, of the Kristofferson song, "Sunday Morning Sidewalk" but it is all so negative in its beauty -- the singer is a hung-over drunken ne'er-do-well feeling sorry for himself as he wanders out of his house into an empty city, where most people are at church (so presumably somewhere in the South) and thinks maudlin thoughts about frying chicken and happy families. Beautiful but self-absorbed and sentimental and not full of peace. Can't think of any song or poem that fits the mood, really.
Hmmmm. Happy. Maybe I should think about showering and dressing and starting the car.
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