My four o' clock mornings are coming. Like my Dad. Up early, even if he's tired. Sick. Even if it's a weekend and there's no reason to get up. It's coming, I can feel it. Already, it's kicking in about five-thirty or six. And there I am. In bed. Head ready and raring to go, even though there is little I can do so early. There is this, the writing, but usually my six in the morning thinking isn't the stuff good literature is made of. So I stay in bed. Roll over. Wrap my arms around S.B. and revel in the warmth. My dearest one. Sleeping.
But soon it will get the best of me. And I'll have to do something. Maybe I'll write, even if it is not good writing. And maybe I'll start calling my Dad. I'm sure he'll be up. Reading the paper. Doing chores. Gazing out the window. And then both of us can not think about it together. That thing that wakes a man so early. Keeps him alert. Solemn and aware of all that's gone, is now, and to come.
Feels like snow today. This is not likely to happen. But the feeling's still here. Easing up my back. Into my shoulders. Sinking into my chest. There is snow up there. Somewhere. And it won't be long before I'm shoveling. Scraping. Clearing paths. Should be a fun winter. Lots is store for all of us. Little Man growing so much, adding more fun to the days. I hope we're able to spend as much time outside in the winter as we do now. It's so important for kids to be outside. When I was a kid, we spent more time outdoors than we did indoors. Except for sleep. And then, when we were indoors we played. Boy did we play. Football in the hallway. Jumping on the beds. Race car tracks. Lincoln logs. Good old crayons and construction paper. Sure, we watched television. Saturday morning cartoons. The Super Friends Hour, The Bugs Bunny Road Runner Hour, The Smurfs. And we even had a video game. The Arcadia 2001. A neat little game that we sometimes played, but for some reason, more often than not, we'd set it aside to head outdoors.
Maybe it was just us. Me and my brothers needing room to run. Trees to climb. Dirt to play in. Bikes to ride. Critters to find. More likely, it was the time. We were encouraged to get out there, go play! Now, there are loads of parents sticking there kids in front of the TV. Stockpiling them with video games. Plugging them into the internet. Or not paying attention at all. After all, they have high-dollar careers, and their own lives to live.
And so, we wonder. Where is the disconnect? How is this happening? Why aren't we close to our kids?
It's because we've lost touch with our roots. The basics. The place we've come from. Call it God, Nature, Fire, Water, Air, Dust, The Earth. Call it whatever you want, but we're all from it. It's in us. At the center. Our core. And when it's neglected we get off track. Out of balance. And we start thinking ME instead of the everything else we should be.
But it's not my place to say how anyone should live. Breathe. Raise their kids. It is survival of the fittest. Good over evil. And waking every day with an aim on good solid homegrown intentions. Feet planted squarely on the earth. One in front of the other. Fighting to maintain a strong will. To learn and grow. Love enough to leave a lasting imprint upon this big wide world. Even if it only comes like this. Little words. From bed to fingers to keys.
My four o' clock mornings are coming. I'll be up early. Even if I'm tired. Sick. Most definitely if it's a weekend. Because there's always a reason to get up. Get the motor running. Especially when it is always here. The slight ache. Easing up my back. Into my shoulders. Sinking into the hollow. Deep into my chests. To let me know there's snow up there. That the big one's coming. That I need to get shoveling and scraping. Doing whatever's necessary to keep this path clear.
