Tea: Marron Glace
Music: Jacob do Bandolim, "Assanhado"
Time: Morning
I can't say there are no words for how I feel about doing dishes -- especially scrubbing pots and pans. There are. They just aren't very nice words.
Mornings? Ditto.
Yet here I am, steeping my first cup of the day after 45 minutes of washing, rinsing, drying (okay, so I dried the heavy pots on the stove) and stacking. And I'm fine with that -- and I'll be even better once the caffeine hits my system.
For one, it's in my jobs column and it needs to be done. But beyond that, I'm trying to move away from a place of doing things grudgingly and out of obligation -- and into a space of doing them because I want to.
Paul exhorted the Ephesians to do everything "as unto the Lord" -- with joy, with love and without complaint. Tall order, for we fallible humans ... but every time we manage it, I believe we will be changed for the better.
Wow ... preach much, Steve?
I'd say it's time to pass the plate, but it's going to be covered with potato pancakes in a bit. Time to break the fast and listen to the rain for a while ...
Today's spooky story: E.F. Benson, "The Horror-Horn"
Showing posts with label morning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label morning. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Monday, December 17, 2007
Tea: Ti Kuan Yin Oolong (morning)/Fruit Medley (night)
Music: Carols, carols everywhere.
Time: Night.
Yet another tea-infused post.
The day began at 5:30, helping one child after another with end of the semester papers. (No, I didn't write them. I proofread. That's it.)
That's where the Ti Kuan Yin came in. (Kuan Yin is the Chinese goddess of mercy, hence the alternative name for the tea: "Iron Goddess of Mercy.") That's not my theology, but a cup of wakefulness -- aromatic with flowers and grass -- that early in the morning is indeed a grace and a mercy.
Friend/collaborator/undefinable kindred spirit Seánan Forbes recommended the Fruit Medley for my son, who is nursing a nasty cough. She had me steep it with cloves, add honey, put in a cinnamon stick and have him sip it through the night.
Sounded good, so I made the second steeping for myself. Medicine has never tasted so good -- not that I was coughing, mind you. But an ounce of prevention ...
Music: Carols, carols everywhere.
Time: Night.
Yet another tea-infused post.
The day began at 5:30, helping one child after another with end of the semester papers. (No, I didn't write them. I proofread. That's it.)
That's where the Ti Kuan Yin came in. (Kuan Yin is the Chinese goddess of mercy, hence the alternative name for the tea: "Iron Goddess of Mercy.") That's not my theology, but a cup of wakefulness -- aromatic with flowers and grass -- that early in the morning is indeed a grace and a mercy.
Friend/collaborator/undefinable kindred spirit Seánan Forbes recommended the Fruit Medley for my son, who is nursing a nasty cough. She had me steep it with cloves, add honey, put in a cinnamon stick and have him sip it through the night.
Sounded good, so I made the second steeping for myself. Medicine has never tasted so good -- not that I was coughing, mind you. But an ounce of prevention ...
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Cup XVIII: Morning Has Broken (a Chair over My Head)
Tea: Arctic Storm (green tea with bergamot, lemon, red thistle and chile)
Music: Tegan and Sara, "Wake up Exhausted"
Time: Mo(u)rning.
My late father was the sort who woke up cheerful: "Good morning, Lord!" Not me. I'm more the "Good Lord, it's morning ..." sort.
My mother, who died when I was 17, was more pragmatic and disciplined. I'm not so sure she was all that thrilled about single-digit a.m. hours, but she got up and got after it.
The weekly teaching stint starts at 8 a.m. I'll be leading the senior AP English class' discussion for the first time. It's not until tomorrow, but I figured I'd better give myself a day of being at least semi-awake at this time of day.
And, of course, no good intention goes unpunished. Getting up earlier means I have more time to be lousy company, after the discovery in the basement.
During the good years between her first cancer surgery and the time the disease came back with reinforcements, my mother painted. Beautifully.
My father loved to fish. His favorite painting of hers was a photorealist piece of crappie in a net, on a stump over water. It was, in turn, her labor of love for him. I inherited it when he died, although it hung in my stepmother's house for a time as a reminder of him. I didn't mind. She was very good for him, and still is good to and for me and mine.
We'd been storing the painting in the basement, because there's been no place to display it properly in the main part of the house. Now it's picked up some mold damage. Not much, but noticeable.
I'm sure it can be cleaned, not so sure I can afford that before the damage gets worse.
I don't have many things that tie my parents together in tangible form. To lose this would be ... I can't think about it right now.
So I'll read, and make a lesson plan, and hope to return at some point today from the Land of Not Very Good Company.
In the meantime, here's today's creepy story:
Algernon Blackwood, "The Empty House"
Music: Tegan and Sara, "Wake up Exhausted"
Time: Mo(u)rning.
My late father was the sort who woke up cheerful: "Good morning, Lord!" Not me. I'm more the "Good Lord, it's morning ..." sort.
My mother, who died when I was 17, was more pragmatic and disciplined. I'm not so sure she was all that thrilled about single-digit a.m. hours, but she got up and got after it.
The weekly teaching stint starts at 8 a.m. I'll be leading the senior AP English class' discussion for the first time. It's not until tomorrow, but I figured I'd better give myself a day of being at least semi-awake at this time of day.
And, of course, no good intention goes unpunished. Getting up earlier means I have more time to be lousy company, after the discovery in the basement.
During the good years between her first cancer surgery and the time the disease came back with reinforcements, my mother painted. Beautifully.
My father loved to fish. His favorite painting of hers was a photorealist piece of crappie in a net, on a stump over water. It was, in turn, her labor of love for him. I inherited it when he died, although it hung in my stepmother's house for a time as a reminder of him. I didn't mind. She was very good for him, and still is good to and for me and mine.
We'd been storing the painting in the basement, because there's been no place to display it properly in the main part of the house. Now it's picked up some mold damage. Not much, but noticeable.
I'm sure it can be cleaned, not so sure I can afford that before the damage gets worse.
I don't have many things that tie my parents together in tangible form. To lose this would be ... I can't think about it right now.
So I'll read, and make a lesson plan, and hope to return at some point today from the Land of Not Very Good Company.
In the meantime, here's today's creepy story:
Algernon Blackwood, "The Empty House"
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