I woke up late and under-motivated today. Instead of charging through my work day resistance (I picture myself as football player, jumping through a paper banner and out onto the field) and leaping into the shower, I found myself wandering from room to room, taking in all the household tasks that needed to be done and wishing for a morning where I could actually attend to them.
In a useless bid to delay leaving home for a few extra moments, I did a sinkful of dishes and pointedly ignoring the cantaloupe on the counter. It is desperate for attention and is beginning to develop tender, sinking spots where it once had a firm, taut rind. Chances are good that it will sit there until totally boggy and fermented, at which point I will finally be able to throw it away. I can’t bear to toss it while it has some promise.
I imagine life as a farm wife, living out on the prairie, each day filled with a rotating assortment of cooking, chores and sleep. I see her standing in the doorway, contemplating her only view, where the land and the sky merge and vanish beyond the point where the eye can see. I envy the home-centered nature of her life, all the while knowing that she must have been deathly weary of that unbroken vista. I am attracted by the peaceful sameness of her days, but only as a relief from the busy-ness of mine.
I am roused from my dream as the radio flips from Morning Edition to BBC Newshour. Inescapably late now, I head for the shower and begin the day.