Irish Photo Adventure!

A Journey in Pictures:

on the Dublin Viking Tour

at Gogarty's Pub prior to the Musical Pub Crawl

the entry stone to New Grange dating from 2000 BEFORE the pyramids

 

look at the idiots swimming and sunbathing...

Dunluce Castle

 

the Christmas Card picture at Giant's Causeway

my own picture of Minard Castle from the beach

the rocks washed up on the Minard beach and the clouds hanging like fog in the hills

and as we left, the sun crept through

casting a diffused glow on the hillside

until it was abnormally radiant AND hazy at the same time

a picture taken at the beehive huts that was a complete afterthought, but i really like it :) 

Ashes to Ireland Part III: Home to Minard Castle

After we made the decision to take Roger's ashes to Ireland, I immediately knew at least one place that the ashes must be spread.

On our honeymoon we drove to the small town of Dingle on the peninsula of the same name in Southwest Ireland. Dingle is in the heart of one of the few Gaeltachts (or Gaelic speaking regions) on the island and home to a number of prehistoric ruins from the original Celts that settled the region. Our travel guru Rick Steves guided us via book around the peninsula to 5000 year old beehive huts, fairy forts, and the remnants of potato fields from the famine that can seen to this day high on the hillsides. Mr. Steves then recommended we visit Minard Castle and a wedge tomb that requires a bit of hike. An adventure! :)

Roger and I spent the better part of a day looking for Minard (MIN-ard) Castle and the wedge tomb. At one point, we were on a completely wrong road, going incorrectly higher and higher into the mountains when we happened upon the most cliche of Irish women sitting on a trunk beside the road with a baby in a stroller and a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel. We stopped to ask if she knew how to find Minard Castle. She did, and while she happily gave us accurate directions, we in the process got to hear her lifestory, cooed over her beautiful granddaughter, discussed my sister's own King Charles, and just how curly my hair actually is all before she was willing to part with the directions. It was really sweet and crazy memorable.

After a number of turns on an equally tiny road, the trees parted, and before us stood the ruins of Minard Castle, a tower fort attacked by Oliver Cromwell during the Reformation, atop a hill overlooking an incredibly picturesque sandy beach. The picture above must be at high tide. (Again, not one of my pictures... I haven't uploaded them yet.)


Perhaps more memorable that the castle was the horse. Guarding the fractured tower was an enormous white horse that stood like a sentinel before the opened face of Minard Castle, completely still and kinda creepy. We watched this horse for some time, and at one point we even questioned whether it was truly real. It hadn't moved nonetheless blinked the entire time we were there. It just stood, staring into the cold waters, waiting for the next wave of angry Puritans to make landfall so it could shoot laser beams out of those unblinking eyes. I got lots of really great pictures of the castle and the horse. Roger decided we had to have a picture of him, the castle, and the horse statue, so he started to climb toward the castle. Not more than perhaps 20 feet up was a sign on the fence stating that entry was not allowed, that the castle is condemned and unsafe for visitors. He tried to reason with me, probably more with himself, that he didn't need to go all the way up to the castle, just a little higher, beyond the fence, to get the best picture. Just as he put his hand on the fence, hinting at his next forbidden move, the horse turned his head and looked at us! He knew...

I squealed with delight! :)

Of all the sites we visited in Ireland, the site that for whatever reason captivated Roger's memory and imagination the most was Minard Castle. I cannot begin to tell you how many times he called me to the computer to show me that he'd found the castle again on Google Maps. Only perhaps a week before his passing, Roger called me back to the office to see that there was an updated satellite image of Minard Castle on Google, and so we of course were required to recall the story of the horse and remember an easier time in our lives.

I knew how to get to the castle, but I was so afraid that my memory was going to be along the lines of Monasterboice that I insisted we do a trial run out there while the guys drank beer in town. We, the girls, drove just outside of Dingle and found it in no time. There were quite a few people on the little beach, and I hoped that they would clear before we returned after dinner with the ashes.

By the time we came back with the guys, there was one final car that was pulling away from the site. The sky was dark with clouds, many of them low enough to appear as fog. We parked opposite the beach. As we got out of the car, an entire herd of cows made their way as close to us as possible, curious as to why we were arriving so late. Joan, Roger's dad with the ashes, and I made our way down the little beach side road to the castle. A brook from an active spring ran between the castle and the beach out into the bay. Roger's dad decided the stream was the perfect spot for his portion of the ashes. I wanted to spread them as close to the castle as possible.

The three of us were very quiet. I found the castle to be as emotionally difficult as the cemetery. This was it. All that remained of my sweet husband was to be released here. The finality of that had not occurred to me prior to that moment. Beforehand, I was happy to be removing the ashes from my bookcase where they had sat for months. Now, the idea that every bit of him would physically be gone, permanently, was more than I could handle. Joan and I cried and hugged. I cried some more. I pretty much cried the duration of our stay down there and part of the way back.

With my first handful, I dressed the hillside. I returned for a second and walked up to the gate with the sign declaring prohibited entrance. As the wind was still, I threw the ash as far beyond the gate as I could. Roger may have not made it past the gate the first time, but he was successful that day.

Roger's father was standing on the little bridge above the stream. Periodically he dropped another handful into the water, watching it twirl in small whirlpools, mix with the current, and disappear into bay. It was mesmerizing. For some time I just stood there, content to watch. I took my own handful and allowed it fall, bit by bit, into the water, physically and symbolically letting go of Roger.

It was perfect. The kids and Dave were on the beach, spreading their last bit of ash. Roger's father had own final moments on the bridge. Joan stood by the stream, watching the ash wash away. I wandered around, trying to memorize everything about this moment because it was perfect. In that second I was positive I had done exactly what he wanted, and I was able to share this with his family.

I walked down to the beach. A barrier of tide driven rocks separated the road from the sand. The rocks were all rounded or ovular from being tossed at sea. Most were black, but there were other stones of reds and greens I had never seen before. I was specifically looking for a rock to take back to my mother when the idea struck me.

I knelt down to write Roger's name deep in the sand. I found 3 semi-flat bottomed rocks and built a cairn next to his name. My nephew Weston asked me what I was building and I explained that the Celts build cairns to mark important spots, and this was truly an important spot. Minard Castle is now the final resting place of a really great man, and I'm proud that we were able to muster the strength (and money) to free him in such a special and sacred way. The kids each found their own rocks to mark their own memory, and as the last stone was balanced we made our way back to the van.

As we drove away from Minard Castle, probably for my last time, the sun managed to filter through the foggy clouds so as to form a hazy column of light into the hillside. Dave noted that Roger must be pleased. I tried to take a picture of how beautiful that indirect presence of light was, but nothing I did rightly captured that moment. Almost as quickly as the sun broke through, it returned behind the clouds and raindrops hit our windshield once again.

Part II: Giant's Causeway

please do not be so sweet as to think i took this picture....

Two days after Roger's birthday we made the "long" trek through Northern Ireland up to Portrush and the Giant's Causeway. I jokingly say "long" because when Roger and I made the trip back in the day, the woman who owned our bed and breakfast was almost horrified that we were willing to drive ****3**** hours up and back in one day. Our response was that we live in Texas.... that's called driving to Dallas.

Giant's Causeway is a natural formation of basalt columns, remnants from volcanic activity, and unique to but a handful of spots around the globe. Science buffs would comment on the fracture lines specific to basalt, but I think it's simply amazing.

The trip to Portrush and the Antrim Coast (home to G.C.) was the first full day of our honeymoon. We arrived in Dublin around 10ish, figured out how the heck to drive on the wrong side of the road, and then made our way just south of the metro to a little town called Shankill where we called home for 3 nights. We stumbled bleery-eyed around Dublin, bound and determined to make our first day in Ireland profitable despite the downpour and flipped umbrella.... yes, my umbrella flip inside-out just like in Mary Poppins on day 1 of a 10 day trip. (I was secretly excited to find out umbrellas could really do that. :) :) )


Giant's Causeway was as amazing as I had read and seen on TV. Roger and I took lots of pictures down there. It also happened to be one of 2 days on our trip that didn't rain. The weather was gorgeous, the sky clear, and all was well in the world. Oh, the days that that were true. That was one of our favorite days on our honeymoon as we got to be adventurous and explore a new country in a car all of our own. I also had the best cappuccino of my life in a tiny internet cafe in Portrush, along with learning first hand that whiskey is as disgusting straight from the distillery source as it is in the US.

We got a bit later start on the way to GC this time with the William's clan. We got there just in time to have lunch at a cafe overlooking the north Atlantic. I was shocked by the number of idiots that felt 60 degrees was swimming weather. The beach was covered in.... idiots... wearing swim suits, emerging from the frigid ocean completely wet and dripping with.... idiocracy... Dude! It was cold! I have a picture of me in my long coat, scarf, wishing perhaps even for gloves while .... idiots... are swimming behind me. I actually called my mom from Ireland to tell her about these crazy peeps.

Before getting to the Causeway, we stopped at Dunluce Castle, a castle that has pretty much fallen apart but with enough still standing that the current renovations are giving a really great picture of how majestic this place once was. The kids were disappointed that the tiny plastic skeleton was no longer in the dungeon... as was I.

Finally, we made our way to the reason for this excursion, the spread of ashes at Giant's Causeway. It was as amazing to the clan as we had described, and we took lots of pictures with my tripod for this year's Christmas card. Roger would think that was pretty cool.

Probably 150 people were milling around on the first outcropping of basalt pillars. You can actually follow the coast for about a mile on a road/pathway that takes you past many examples of this wonder, but the majority of worldwide tourists stop at that first grouping. We decided that we should probably go to the other backside of this cropping to perform our ritual so as not to draw attention. Our intent was to spread the ashes in the ocean, but we also weren't sure how legal this might be.

The GC spread was not nearly the profound moment we had at Monasterboice, but still there was a heartfelt purpose that gave it weight and meaning. I didn't cry this time as Dave opened the ashes. We all took an unannounced moment of silence as I reached into the box. While still unnerving, I wasn't moved to break-down, just slow, mechanical breathing. I took a few steps aside, closer to the water, standing on two basalt stones close to the shore. In my heart, I whispered to Roger. I turned my hand to let the ashes fall into the inlet... just as the wind began to blow.

The ashes took flight, soaring quickly and with purpose, directly into Dave's mouth. Our eyes widened in disbelief. Someone gasped in horror. Dave spit.

How could you NOT laugh? I mean, this is exactly the kind of thing that you would never want to happen, especially to yourself, and yet it was so fitting in this comedy of errors in which we found ourselves... The missed flights, the lost luggage, the standard transmission, convincing the tram driver to accept our Euros in Northern Ireland (a good ole British Pound based country) because we were "poor Texans" as Roger's father described us with a thick slathering of Texas accent. Inadvertently eating ashes is just the next in a line of classic conundrums unique to slapstick or at least a mediocre Woody Allen flick.

Roger's parents spread their ashes more carefully into the cracks of the pillars and the patches of grass growing between. Kim, Dave, the midgets, and I decided to hike a bit closer to the water in hopes of the ash actually making it to the sea. Maneuvering up and down the pillars to reach the water took some skill  and with it was born the quote of the trip from none other than my sweetly naive 7 year old niece:

"We need to be really careful as we spread Roger's ashes... And we need to try to keep Roger out of our mouths."

Oh my goodness we laughed again. The seriousness with which she said it was enough to laugh to the point of tears, which suddenly shifted to actual tears in just another example of these uncanny emotional shifts at which I am now a pro. The last time we were there, Roger was standing on a similar pair of stones taking a picture of a crab in a tiny tidal pool. And here I was, allowing the tide to take him away.

There was one stone about  4 or 5 inches in the water, like a stepping stone, that I wanted to stand on to guarantee water contact. Without going through the long story of my begrudging purchase of Reebok shape-up shoes, it is important to know that I was wearing these crazy shoes with weird balled soles. Dave was standing a few pillars higher, holding the ashes. I reached up to take a handful, and I stepped down and out onto the stepping stone. The ball of my foot made contact and, without my consent, rolled forward, catching a chunk of moss I had not noticed. I lost traction and felt myself falling very quickly, face first, toward the water. I was now on survival-mode auto-pilot. My hand with the ashes planted down on the rock by my foot, surprisingly saving myself from a certain icy bath.

I looked back at my companions, shocked that I was still dry! Their eyes were again huge in disbelief, and we for a third time erupted into laughter. If there was any doubt Roger had a hand in our GC excursion, surely any of these episodes proved otherwise. We giggled and looked back to see if his parents had noticed my almost-horrendous accident. All was light hearted until I heard an "ugh". They were looking down at the rock.

As my quick-minded hands caught my fall, they also slammed the ashes onto the wet stone. Next to my left foot was now a pile reminiscent of instant mashed potatoes.

"Are you going to try to get those into the water or just leave them?"

I dipped my hand into the seriously cold water (idiot swimmers) and washed the ash from the stone. The chill brought me back to a melancholy mindset, and I climbed back up the stone to give the others access to the water. I don't know if anyone noticed my silent tears or if everyone chose to let it be a private grief. Either way, it was a sadness different from the cemetery. It was a sadness more that Roger was missing out on another experience I would more than wish to be sharing with him and less a sadness that he is gone. I don't know if those even sound different to the "normal" person.

I walked back up the hilly, mile hike with Kim to the tram and then our car to find my tripod gone and the van keys missing. Griswold's European Vacation Part Deux...

Ashes to Ireland: Part 1

I've had several people already tell me that they expected a long blog entry to follow my recent trip to Ireland, and while it is inevitable (how could it not be when you free the last remaining physical connection to your husband) it is not possible... There is no way I could possibly do such a poignant trip justice in ONE long blog entry.

Therefore

PART ONE: The Gremlin and The High Cross

When Roger and I went to Ireland for our honeymoon, we very intelligently added a GPS to our car rental. It was our only saving grace on multiple occasions as Irish road maps are, if I'm not mistaken, edited and published by hamsters. (Did you know there is no P in hamster?.... thank you spell check) Remembering the deep gratitude we held for the GPS, I recommended we do the same on this trip.

Our car rental was actually the 3rd in a string of calamities on our venture. The Williams Clan and I joked that if our trip was made into a movie it would be aptly titled "National Lampoon's European Vacation Part 2". Anything that could go wrong did, and even some things that would surely by safe from error or irony were not. Upon arrival at Dublin's Avis, we were dropped off at some foreign model of Ford. My sister in law and I looked at each other, already feeling uneasy about it but hoping that gut reaction was premature.

It was a car.

There were 7 travelers on this journey, and I know of no car that would do the job. To make a very lengthy story palatable, we needed to have reserved a VAN, which is considered a utility vehicle in the most basic of definitions, but it wasn't an option as we looked for passenger vehicles. The car wouldn't hold 7 people along with 7 people's luggage, but after a pretty hefty argument, some negotiating, and of course more money, we were able to trade the car for a van the next day.

The van was a standard...
on the right side of the car...
with the stick shift in the left hand...
while driving on the wrong side of the road...
in a foreign country with poorly marked roads...
in the rain...
with a caramel coating on our windshield...

Ok, that last part didn't happen, but it might as well have. We did add on the Garmin GPS to aid our travels, but it turned out to almost be a hindrance. It insisted that we never wanted to take major roads, which is a problem in a country like Ireland. If you can imagine the narrowest of roads, just wide enough to let two cars "pass", rarely a center stripe, tall trees/bushes held back only by stone fences erected by farmers centuries ago to clear the rock for planting, limited visibility, and lots of tight often >90° turns, then you can imagine the roads the Garmin felt were in our best interest. It got to the point that my sister in law began referring to it as the Gremlin instead.

Wednesday was Roger's 34th birthday. We decided to mark it with the first spreading of ashes. I had chosen three special locations, and the first was a site close to Dublin called Monasterboice (Mon-AS-ter-boyce). Monasterboice is a cemetery at the site of a monastery (hence the name) from the 900s. In addition to a ruined tower, there are two Celtic High Crosses that also date to the early 10th century. We visited the cemetery originally to view the crosses, a form of art as well as an avenue with which monks taught the gospel utilizing the intricate carvings that tell the complete story of Jesus's life. Regardless your religious views, you cannot deny the magnitude and beauty of these monuments, and Roger especially was enamored by the site. He thought it was amazing that adjacent to a cross dating from 922AD there was a grave from 2004. Monasterboice is an active cemetery still today.

Ireland has daylight til around 10pm this time of year. We planned the evening to include an early dinner and a drive to Monasterboice giving us plenty of light for the first spreading. The weather was amazing all day; sunny, clear, and kinda warm (if it can be warm AND call for scarves). However, the second we got in the van, thick dark clouds filled the sky and it began to rain...

Back to the Gremlin... Roger and I had a difficult time finding the cemetery ourselves. The GPS didn't know where it was, and maps gave us conflicting points. It took us a great deal of time find the cemetery, but the huge tower gave it away once we were close. We arrived just as the sun was setting. The light gave it a surreal quality that made our time there even more memorable. It was empty; just us two and the groundskeeper that lived next door.

Knowing that the GPS was incorrect, I navigated what I remembered to be the accurate directions to Monasterboice. I will keep this part of the story short to preserve my dignity and skills as a map reader. Let's just say that what should have been a 45 minute drive turned into something closer to an hour and half and involved stopping at a diner to ask directions from a a seemingly lovely woman who took the time to even walk outside to show me where to go... and then snottily added that maps help. Bitch...

I was really downtrodden at this point. It was raining, dark, and a good 45 minutes later than we planned to arrive. In fact, it was almost 10pm before we saw the tower rising from the beyond the trees. And as we pulled up, I saw the gate: closed.

My heart sank a little deeper than it had already sunk nearly two hours ago when the rain first hit our windshield. I had chosen this wonderful location, and yet again the universe had other plans.

Everyone got out of the van except me. I'll admit it; I was pouting. It wasn't until I heard my name called that we could hop the fence that I begrudgingly got out. Next to the gate, actually built into the stone fence, were STEPS! Please explain to me the point of the gate if there are stairs that allow for entry...

I was the last to climb over the fence. The rain had stopped. It was still cloudy and dark, but somehow the last of the sunlight permeated just enough for us to see. I heard my nephew whisper, "It's just like Harry Potter!" The Williams Clan explored the cemetery while I walked to the back, just past the tower, to have my own moment at a site that held such a different significance not long ago. I did my best to hold back the tears, I'm not even sure why. It wasn't long before I found myself in the company of family, and the moment I didn't know I had been dreading came to be.

Roger's father held the box of ashes. We had to have them put in a plastic box so that they could be scanned at the airport. THAT is a separate story in and of itself, but one I'll leave for telling in person.

Joan, his mother, had memorized a quote that had personal meaning for her, and she recited it by heart as we solemnly listened or perhaps used it as a launching pad for our own thoughts. All the while, his father was trying, yes TRYING, to open the plastic box. I didn't realize there was a problem until I heard a "Hmm..." come from his dad. He couldn't get the box open!

After everything that had happened before, and believe me there was a laundry list (remember, we're talking Griswald trip to Ireland), I was now watching the ashes refuse to open!? I remember thinking this was really funny. Dave, my brother in law, came over to help, but even he couldn't get the box to budge.  Everything in me was laughing, but as soon as my mouth opened the internal laughter exited as blubbering tears.

"We came all the way to Ireland, and the f*cking box won't open!!!!!"

I kid you not... The moment I said f*ck, the box opened. It was noted by all that if ever there was a way Roger could demonstrate his presence, waiting for me to cuss to allow access to his ashes was definitely one way to do it.

Dave held the ashes against his chest and walked to me to grant me the first spread. The last 5 months I had envisioned a small shovel like the kind you use at the beach in my hand, but as that was but another way I was unprepared for this moment, I reached in for a handful.

It was physically nothing I had ever felt before and hope never to feel again. I would like to remember how soft Roger's lips were, how scratchy his 10am five-o'clock shadow was, and what his hugs felt like - not the consistency of his ashes. I completely broke down inside and out. What a horrible task to be set before me. I shook the ashes as I would flour from my hand along the fence that separated us from a grassy field. I shook them around the tower, amongst the crosses. We took turns taking our portions, mingling an ancient past with a painful present, scattering his ashes along with our tears.

Joan and Dave poured some ash around the base of one of the High Crosses, and I was a bit embarrassed I had not thought of it first. I supposed initially the cross seemed too sacred to touch, but it seemed fitting. It seemed perfect.

We took a moment to remember the wonderful things about Roger, circled around the High Cross, and then one by one we headed back to the van. His father walked me out of the cemetery with his arm around my shoulder. My sister in law and the kids were already back in the van by the time the remaining four of us approached the gate. Dave had already climbed over and was waiting to help us do the same.

"Did anyone actually try to open the gate before?" Joan asked.

Silence... Roger's father lifted the latch that held the gate closed, and without a struggle it opened.

"You are kidding me!!!" I cried, but this time it was accompanied by laughter. We all laughed. It was a Roger moment, and I love that those still exist.

Nonetheless, I insisted on hopping the fence.

And It All Winds Down

My concept of time has changed dramatically since Roger's death. I never know just quite how to explain the reality of time dragging on second by second and rushing by quicker than I can process, all simultaneously. That day feels like forever ago. The day before, though, just happened...

I won't say that we decided to go take his ashes to Ireland. "Decided" is the wrong verb; we knew instantly it was something we had to do. The moment the words, "I guess we're going to Ireland" escaped my brother-in-law's lips was ages ago. So much life has already happened between that moment and this. Our evening trip for the first spreading of ashes was surely far more than just 4 days ago. But in the same, our time in Ireland has flown by, as have the months of re-learning to be me.

Far from a vacation, this trip has been difficult, emotionally draining, and not at all the way I would ever want to visit a country. Nonetheless, as our trip comes to a close, I can honestly not imagine a more perfect and appropriate way to say our final goodbyes than amidst family, the beauty of Ireland, and the truth that Roger is exactly where he wanted to be, though not at all in the capacity we once imagined.

The Travel Bug

Travel has always been a priority for me, even before I met Roger. I can’t imagine a better way to spend my money and off-time than by experiencing other cultures, countries,  and food… even if it turns out gross. On my first two European adventures I actually made the trek across the ocean all by myself and then met my travel companions on the other side. It wasn’t until our honeymoon in Ireland that I took a trip with someone. Nothing makes an 11 hour flight better than having someone with you to snuggle with, talk smack about poorly behaved children, and comment on the surprising quality of airline food.

Obviously, with school in full swing, I haven’t travelled since losing Roger. Recently, I took a short jaunt to Seattle with some teacher friends. It was crazy intense travel, trying to fit in a lot in a short amount of time – Roger’s and my favorite way to vacation. I mean, if you have to fly, you might as well see a LOT to make the airfare worth it!

I hadn’t given the Seattle venture much prior thought, nor had I consciously labeled the trip as my first sans husband. At the airport, I had the other people in my group with which to chat, I knew my seat partner on the plane, and meals were of course planned and filled with conversation.

It was the moment I entered my hotel room that I was suddenly struck. The door closed. I set my luggage by the TV, dropped my purse on the bed.

Silence.

I was the only one there, and the absence of my travel partner became painfully obvious.

For whatever reason, the last week or so my emotions have been on overload. I hold things together really well and am for the most part very positive and optimistic about my life and future, but I’ve had more moments in this last fortnight that have sent me into tears than logic would tell me I should. The empty hotel room was enough to bring the all too familiar hot, wet sting to my cheeks. 

I really miss him.

I cleaned up my face, re-powdered to cover the residual pink, and met the crew downstairs for dinner and pictures in Kerry Park. When I returned to my room that evening, the void was still there, but the shock was more of a dull reminder.

Monday I fly to Ireland. I’m thankful to say I will be travelling with family – my Williams clan. Early on we had decided that when life went back to normal we would take a celebratory trip back to Ireland, the country we fell in love with after our wedding. When it was so horrifyingly and suddenly apparent that life would never be normal for “us” again, it seemed only fitting and even necessary for Roger to have that final adventure to our proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

Ashes in hand, I’ve selected some of the locations special to “us” to return Roger back to the earth, just as he wanted. While I know there will be great moments in the mix, I cannot even predict how this trip will affect me… how can you.

Kind thoughts and good vibes welcome.

Well, good morning!

An unwelcomed and unintended thing happened this morning. Lucy, in her endless quest for food, woke me up at her disgustingly usual time… 4:15am…. to give me “kisses” in the name of breakfast. Kisses really isn’t the right word as that describes an act of love and affection. Lucy’s tongue, however, acts much in the way my father used to threaten to throw ice water on me to make sure I got out of bed.

Luckily, Lucy is  also fairly obedient to the command “go to bed”, so after asking her to do so, her tiny legs trotting from the big bed to her crate in the kitchen, I scooped up Scarlet to deposit her as well.  This is our routine…. every morning…. at 4:15… I will say that despite such an untimely wake up call, especially for the summer, I usually am successful going back to sleep, at least until the 5:30 whimpering of mistakenly hungry puppies wakes me again. After satisfying their breakfast needs, we all snuggle back down for their post-breakfast nap that can often last until around 9. Psycho doglets…

This morning was no different. The girls fluffed the many blankets in their crate as I stumbled back to bed, half asleep, half wishing I had fish. I crawled back into bed and got comfortable.

…and got comfortable again…

….and again…

I flopped onto my stomach, readjusting the angle of my pillow. I sighed as I sank deeper into the comforter, into the pillows, into the awkward but wonderful position I arrange my legs to sleep face down.

And I lay there.

I flipped on to my back, this time with my right arm bent upwards, hand beneath my head. I popped one foot out of the covers. I turned onto my right side, my left side, back to my back. I crossed my ankles, uncrossed them, bent one knee while keeping the other straight. It didn’t seem to matter how I aligned my body; it was my mind that was in question.

I detest the nights when my body aches for sleep but my mind is aflutter with thought… not even deep thought. It would be tolerable if, in the moments of the night when all sane creatures are recharging for the day ahead, I was mulling over the innermost cogs of the universe or mentally drafting the next great social manifesto. Instead, I am plagued by the fleeting wonderings of no consequence: did I actually put my crochet hook back in the case last night or is it still wound in my new red hat? Do I have any extra crushed granite, or will I need to buy some at Lowe’s? And why is that 40 lbs. of crushed granite is so much heavier than 40 lbs. of potting soil???

After an hour and a half of tossing and pondering all things of little matter, the clock said 5:45… during the summer… on a holiday… a FEDERAL holiday… not even the postal workers are stirring… and I made the uncharacteristic decision to get up.

I wasn’t sure what to do at 5:45am. I thought about turning on the TV, but I was sure the crap that’s on at 5:45 is similar to the crap that was on at midnight when I went to bed. I thought about reading, but my eyes were still heavy despite the energetic leaps of my brain. I realized that the girls hadn’t made their breakfast whimpers yet, so I let them out of the crate and fed them.

I feed them outside on the back porch, and usually I step outside only long enough to make them sit before I present them with breakfast, eyes still blurry, senses not yet rebooted. But this morning, as the girls chomped away, I looked up.

Did you know that at 5:45am in July, there is actually a touch of light in the sky??? Crazy, huh! There are also exactly 2 stars left, one that is crazy bright. At one point I think I could have told you what that was, but that was many years ago. It was so still, so remarkably still. The usual hum of traffic in the distance was silenced. Not even the chirp of birds broke the stillness. Somewhere unbeknownst to me, a fountain was trickling. But beneath the trickling, beneath my breath, there was nothing. It was amazing.

I just stood there for a few minutes, taking in the stillness, taking in the silence, watching the redbud hint of a breeze. The only other time I have memory of such quiet and such a seemingly frozen moment was that day… but it was only because, as I recognize now, my senses, my body, and my mind had shut down – ancient and unconscious modes of protection, providing a temporary escape until a more appropriate moment to process presents itself.

But this calm was inviting, and so I accepted. At 5:45am, I sat in one of the blue Adirondacks on the patio, curled my knees under my chin, and watched and listened as the world awoke. It wasn’t long before I had to make a lap for Scarlet to snuggle. Lucy walked the fence line, inspecting her property. We watched together as the first bird of the morning graced the sky. I actually thought it was a bat at first, and it freaked me out, but I’ve never seen a bat soar without flapping its wings, so I’m going to continue to believe it was a bird. Lucy concurs.

I ran inside for a minute to get my camera. Who knows when the next time I’ll be awake as the sun rises, and I felt it would be irresponsible as a budding photographer no ignore this moment. (At this point Scarlet ran in with me and tried to convince me it was time for post-breakfast nap.) My attempts are recognizably amateur at best, but it was fun to experiment with shutter speed and bracketing in my failed attempts to find the perfect exposure.

Perhaps my shutter was nature’s alarm; it wasn’t long before the chirping of birds replaced the silence along with the first barks of the morning. Somewhere, someone pulled out of their driveway, I’d like to believe going on a kolache run (which is where I’d like to be as well). The sprinklers next door kicked on. The roof of the house to the east was highlighted with the back-glow of a sun ready to start the day… another day of frying my grass and dashing my plans of doing anything outside after 10. It‘s interesting to think that in such an unforgiving climate as the one we find ourselves with no rain, unrelenting heat, and that (often) god forsaken sun, that I’m wearing  a sweater as I write on the porch. How wonderful. J I do love my sweaters.

So as the rest of the world begins to consider joining my unusual state of early morning consciousness, I think I’ll make some coffee – I’m getting markedly better at it – and perhaps take the girls on a never before seen early morning walk before Scarlet dismembers another squeaky squirrel, leaving stuffing in her wake.

Good morning everyone, and happy 4^th of July.

I’ll post my exciting pre-sun pictures in a bit, so if they arent’ up yet, check back later.