The poet William Stafford woke early most mornings, I am told, and reclined on his couch, covered with a knitted throw. He would drink a cup of instant coffee while he thought and composed. His early rising was a habit, so I believe, of the time he spent in an intern camp during the Second World War. He was a conscientious objector, a philosophical stance not well tolerated in the 1940s. I’m an early riser also. (I am not comparing myself here to Stafford in any way, though as Mark Twain jested “all great men are dead, and I am not feeling too well myself.”)

I’ve always been a morning person, but in recent years my “morning” has become late night/very early morning. I am often up by three and, like today, by two. As I get older, sleep seems to be something I can, to a large extent, do without. I drink coffee and read or write. At some point every morning, Lyd comes out to ask what time I got up. I am usually reluctant to tell her. I know she disapproves of my early hours and lack of sleep. It is a ritual we have established. I often bake after that, making muffins, scones, or biscuits. When the baking is done, I spiff up the kitchen and start breakfast. If I want to push the boundaries of my diet, I make sausage gravy for the biscuits. It is an indulgence as Lydia won’t eat biscuits and gravy. She has an aversion to wet bread (her words not mine). Consequently, I never cook hot turkey sandwiches, or chipped beef on toast (SOS), and only rarely cook dumplings or stew with biscuits baked on top of it. I reserved those items for Josh and I when Lyd was out of town. I love her dearly but suspect that there must have been a traumatic “wet bread” incident in her childhood, scarring her for life. Sensitive to her predilections (and the fact that I am trashing my calorie count for the day), if I make gravy and biscuits, I eat before she wakes up.

The irony here is that if my body decides I can’t do without sleep, I simply sleep longer. If, however, my mind says I should do without the biscuits and gravy for the sake of my diet, my body, and more specifically my stomach, says “no you shouldn’t” and I eat anyway. Makes me wonder who’s in charge here.

The upshot is that, while most of you are sleeping, poets are writing great poetry, bakers are baking, and I, alone in my chair, am dealing with cosmic issues.

Day 20, Blessings

Unwanted Travels