In the morning

I am not a morning person. Never have been, not sure I ever will be. At least by choice. But quite often lately I am a morning person because my son forces me to be one. It gives me time alone with him, which is nice. And we see all sorts of things I'd miss if I were asleep. For instance this morning he spotted a hummingbird on the fuschia plant, the first we've seen in weeks. And we saw dozens of tiny birds (finches?) flying in waves from one tree to another, cheerfully twittering as they flew. We also got to see "our" squirrels out busily gathering food and I chased off a rogue cat who was harassing one squirrel. If I hadn't been awake, that rotten cat might have gotten dangerously close to our little puffy-tailed buddy.

Or worse, far worse, the idiotic blue jays woke me up AGAIN far earlier than my boy did. I went outside in my pajamas to chase them off the roof and got to feel the cool morning mist on my skin. After the days and days of dryness we've had, the feeling was almost indescribable. While I cannot be grateful to those idiotic birds for disturbing my rest, I am grateful for the coolness I felt.

I keep reading about the benefits of meditation and most of the examples I've read, the person meditates in the morning, before the rest of the house is awake. That is also a good time to exercise, to get it done and out of the way. But I still can't bring myself to set an alarm and get up any earlier than my kid alarm goes off. Often that is too early for me! Maybe someday. I wonder, though, if being up early, paying attention to nature, training my eyes to new flower buds and my ears to squirrels jumping from branch to branch or the birds making music in the trees, maybe that is almost like meditation. Turning off the endlessly looping to-do list in my head and tuning into the world around me. For now, it is as close to meditation as I am going to get.

Pears

While picking through a big box of red pears the other day, being critical of bruises and dents, all of the sudden I was back at my grandparents' yard, standing under a pear tree with my grandfather. The ground was littered with fallen pears, which I carefully stepped around as I tried to find a nice pear in the tree. My grandpa picked up one of the pears from the ground, pulled out his knife and cut away the damaged spots. He said those ones were more ripe and would taste better, despite the bruises. I was skeptical, and picky, but I tried one. He was right. It was sweet and juicy and tasted like Indian Summer.

Grandpa grew up in a time when you couldn't afford to be picky. And it was in his nature not to waste things. I was very spoiled growing up in that I could be picky, and often was. But I also knew the value of a dollar and used to clip coupons for my mom (who still doesn't use coupons). And somewhere in adulthood I began to feel very guilty about wasting "good" food and making a conscious effort not to. Just because something is a little bruised or mushy doesn't mean it still can't be useful.

But back to the pears. I feel like there is a bigger metaphor in there. How many times have I overlooked something or someone because it was damaged? What am I missing out on by being picky? I have a soft spot for clearance plants, just can't stand to think of them being tossed in the trash because they are a little wilted or scrawny. So I find them a home in my garden and most of the time they thrive. What else should I be giving a second look? How much better could the world be if everyone took a second look at a bruised pear, a wilted flower, a person who is in shabby clothes? There is so much untapped worth out there.