1/22/19

Morning Worship

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Morning air, metallic, not cold and not chilled, but still.  Somehow sweet and encouraging.  Helped start kids getting ready for their first day after long weekend.  Back at school, back to pattern and routine.  Son excited and into what needed to be needed and done but daughter not so.  To coffee spot on Hopper, mocha for wife, latte for moi.  All out door except me.  Here now, before my days starts its taxi to runway.  Jazz, latte, room with no sounds but typing on this leant laptop and Art Pepper, his saxophone.  Haven’t heard much of his work, if any considerable amount.  Unexpected and not in any way forecast, something like this.  Collecting before my first day back into routine, first day which isn’t much a first day at all.  Just a day, a day I don’t want to be “just a day” or jus another.

Mornings and I have had a shift a bit of late in our intersection and elemental overlap and principle placements.  Always wanting to wake earlier, studying the early hours, the earliest of earlier earlies and how I react to them on page.  Some just wake early ‘cause they have to, from a commute obligation or something of the type, and this is similar, this morning and the ones approaching, but a stern contrast in their composition.  How so, and what so, I know not yet and I may not for some time, but I’m here aware and conscious of my consciousness at this hour.

Was watching a philosophy professor from I believe Yale last night, on YouTube, lecturing on death.  Or, the first lecture of the semester.  Not sure what the course title was or what module specifically in their Philos’ program, but he sat on the desk, legs crossed, attempted hip or friendly, inviting visual—in fact, not attempted but quite believable and genuine this man seemed and sounded in his word arrangement and immediate tone—and spoke of death and its idea, significance.  Thought, “Why not do the like with the current, time, right now, what we have and what we see around WE?” What’s done this morning, or I think.  Jazz and caffeine, 7:35 and I have to be out that door and into my day because that’s what grown-ups do I guess. What this character need do, to support kids and family, buy next house and “advance career”.  Do I need help doing that?  Do I need the company at which I labor, a company I very much admire and respect and seek to emulate in a multitude of tunes, to see what I want to see?

Keep looking at the time.  Why.  Habit and obligation woven into one trove or planning and worry, of have-to’s.  Unplug laptop, stuff, device in backpack (like I’m a student, days I miss, I want to be a student—So why don’t you be?  Time will allow and then seem to not but you know the morning, you know the time around and present about you, NOW–), drive to office.  Keep same jazz station playing in car.  Let mind go wherever it wants, on some visual and self-encouraging gallivant and saunter through possibility enclaves.

Yesterday walking around Healdsburg, mid-ish afternoon, taught me about the Now, where I am in it and how mornings need be obsessively heeded, more carefully read.  Need wake earlier, and not just some day, Monday through Friday, but all days.  See what the morning says to me and what blessings if you would, should it or will it disclose, speak and teach to an eager and needy me.

 

8:14.  To make day even more interesting, I don’t work.  My team, Field Sales, not working, as yesterday was MLK Day and we need to observe it so we don’t work today, or something.  So now, at Aroma Roasters on Railroad Square, my favorite part of Santa Rosa which is imperative I visit or write here as I exponentially quick grow tired of this city.  Have noticed this feeling in the past few days, quite prominently yesterday when walking with family around Coffey Park.  Ordered decaf, not sipping yet as it’s blazes hot.  It doesn’t want me to sip or have her touch a single lip.

Morning continues to show me something about where I am and what I’m doing.  Class tomorrow night.  What do I talk about.  Don’t think about it now I tell myself but I can quite literally feel self lose the ability to wait for tomorrow night. Lecturing—No, not “lecturing” but sharing ideas.  People around me in this coffee house which has much more a genuine feel and literary integrity than a Starbucks I’ll say.  The morning, still cold.  A few degrees up, but not much.  Can hear the people around me even with the jazz in my ears.  Imagining self as a student, a student in my class.  Having short reactions to type then longer essays, having to keep a journal (though this semester I advocated for THREE, one for class, one for self I think I specified on syllabus, then one for wherever whenever whatever).  I’m a student but not but entirely so, learning from the morning and its holy contour of an hour, the divine direction of where this day goes.

Email notification on phone.  Old instructor friend I met I think at Napa Valley College, when I taught there a seeming galaxy and a half ago.  Ella.  Now a high school English teacher, full-time, ‘cause you can get FT teaching high school, or teaching high as I often joke, not at any college court.  She writes, “Do you have any suggestions for teaching narrative at the high school level?” Not sure what to say back, so I say, write, nothing.  I don’t want my studies disrupted.  The study of this morning, the odd and just dropped-in-my-lap present of not having to work.  And that I ordered decaf.  That I’m at Aroma Roasters when usually I’d be adjusting a formula in a spreadsheet, or taking notes for week, or…. Something.  I’m here.  In my praising pose, loving everything around me and what happened.  I shouldn’t just not answer, so I do.  “Sedaris”.

“Is that appropriate?” She writes.

Again from me, nothing.  I don’t know what to say and I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to spend the morning messaging back and forth.  With anyone.