silent admiration

Saturday morning, sitting in my car in front of Charles and Elizabeth's house, ready to follow them to the parade, I had ten minutes all to myself.

Don't get me wrong, I'm delighted Jim is back home. In his absence I had time to read three books and enjoyed an all too infrequent bubble bath (despite kitty's propensity to stand on the side of the tub and swat at the foam). But there was a sense of urgency to those stolen minutes, as if my mind refused to shut down, driven to be doing something with my time.

Alone time is one thing. Alone and NOT DOING anything is an entirely different story.

Sitting there in the just becoming lightness, I turned off the engine, muted the radio, rolled down the windows, and listened in silent admiration to the delightful two-note etude of the little neighborhood doves.

Glanced over at the book in the passenger seat, but left it untouched. I have the utmost respect for the written word, and am deeply grateful for the salaries it provided me and mine throughout my formal working years, but a stale cold tome does not hold a candle to the sight of the sun rising on the horizon.

And the sound of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, while I am always awed by it, can in no way compare to nature's melody.

Sitting in a cathedral of trees, on bucket seat instead of pew, those few minutes were in no way a religious experience, but instead a deeply spiritual one. And, for me, on that gladsome glorious morning, it was the best kind.