Set The Alarm

When I retired from practicing law, I decided two things:  The first was that I would not speed.  No longer subject to the power of a judge who could hold me in contempt for being late, I would drive the speed limit, even on the interstate.  The second decision was that I would not set an alarm.  I would no longer be jarred from sleep, but would, instead, break the surface of the day slowly, languidly, quietly.

This morning, though, this late August morning, I did wake to an alarm.  I have an appointment – a designated place to be at a designated time.  A time that, in these days of self-rule, makes me wince, but even as I wince I leave the bed, pull up the covers, and walk stiffly toward the door to step outside.

I do this thing – this stepping outside, this breathing of un-conditioned air, this briefly surveying the world – every morning.  It is like the blessing before a meal, an acknowledgment that what is being offered to me is gift not wages.  It is a reminder that, if I open my eyes and my arms, I will see and hear wonders.

On most mornings I am met by the clear colors and distinct shadows and certain dimensions.  On most mornings I recognize everything around me, can see the weeds that need to be pulled, the splintered wood on the screened-in porch, the footprints on the unswept steps.  On most mornings I am self-conscious, absurdly aware that my hair is sticking out in all directions, that my bathrobe should probably be thrown into the laundry, that my brain is screaming for caffeine.

Not this morning.  This morning there is just enough light to discern the mist that smudges the landscape into indistinct objects in the palest of colors.  The sun is still lolling beneath the horizon and the birds are not yet vocalizing in the branch.  I am wrapped in a sacred stillness that I realize, as I stretch my arms into a high arc, is the world reverently awaiting the birth of the day.

In my peripheral vision I detect movement and turn to see a doe and fawn moving away from the sawtooth oak under which they have been breakfasting on acorns half the size of golf balls.  In the low light they could be ghosts of deer, floating over the damp grass.  I watch until they turn the corner where the field road meanders down to the pond.

If I had not awakened to an alarm, if I had not resisted the urge to instruct Alexa to snooze ... and snooze again ... I would have missed the deer.  

Yes, they are probably there every morning.  The deer prints and discarded acorn caps that they leave behind are prima facie evidence that the Sandhill buffet is something like their Waffle House, but heart-shaped footprints and lacy cupule will never evoke in me the amazement of seeing, even through early morning mist, the mama, the baby, so beautiful, so close.

I am always grateful that I get to live so near to what we casually call nature, what we nonchalantly claim to appreciate and want to protect, but every so often that gratitude turns into humility.  And every so often that humility becomes supplication, a simple prayer that I never forget that these acres are shared.

Copyright 2025