Reflections on a Misty Morning

This morning has been painted by a particularly dramatic romantic painter. The farthest trees are lost in a steel wash of mist while closer in the black outlines of the trees wait silently to be revealed by the coming day. The unfeeling highway disrupts the held breath of my back yard, but I suppose each person really should be getting to wherever they are going. Suppose one of them is zipping along the asphalt on his or her way to deliver a baby. All parties involved would count my disrupted morning vigil as trivial. Perhaps one driver is sipping coffee, just a shade hotter than comfortable, motoring along on her way to begin her morning refuse management job. I am not grateful enough to her or her coffee for showing up, week after week, without fail for years to make sure that I never have to face the rejected bits of my household. I am sure one of those drivers is a teacher, navigating his was through traffic and uncertainty. How does one teach when normal has become so strained? What do you tell your students? What do you count as important? Prepositions? Are prepositions important in light of all of this chaos?

The sun is rising, although the only indication I get is a lightening of the water-logged air. This day will bring decisions. Each of us will have to decide, what will we teach? Will I teach my children that our schedule is more important than questions? How about silliness? How about bickering? God save us all from bickering and from ignoring what bickering is telling us.

I am sorry my temper flared, dear early-morning-drivers. I am so hopeful that you get where you need to be. Pay no attention to my longing for silence. I am sure you would rather be standing at a window straining to hear the first bird’s song.