Usually the sun rises through my bedroom window, but today it is overcast. Today it is cold. Usually the cats, two of them, come and wake me up early reminding me that it’s time for them to eat. Today they do not. They too must still be sleeping.
I prefer waking up early to have a moment to myself before I make the long drive to a yoga class. I could do yoga at home, but I still enjoy practicing in a hot classroom, sweating on someone else’s floor. Besides, there are too many distractions at home: a warm bed, a long list of chores, a garden to tend, dishes to wash, a warm bed…
This morning I stayed in bed until 9 dreaming I was a snooze farmer. In the dream it made sense. I grew the ingredients necessary for snooze alarming. As if the chimey music that plays every nine minutes from my phone, transitioning me from one reality to another, requires some kind of organic material, similar to percussion instruments like goat’s toes, wooden blocks or a rain stick. My crop looked like poppies, lavender, chamomile, and echinacea. And though I didn’t see it done, it was implied that I dried and collected the harvest in soft little satchels where they would hang from tree limbs in the wind, waiting to be assigned to someone who needed directions home, and once they did, they’d sway, dance and sing their annoying little xylophone song, much to the dismay of many happy nappers.
It is now 9:08 and I am still enjoying the overcast morning, my excuse to stay in bed and ruminate. The rooster crows late as well. Maybe it isn’t 9. Maybe all the alarms rang early today and it is only 7. It feels more like a 7 anyway. Or maybe I’m still dreaming. Or perhaps this is your dream. If that’s so, thank you for my life. I like it here.