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Saturday, June 29, 2013

90 Perfect Minutes

Every few weeks my day starts out with 90 perfect minutes.  Today was one of those days.  It usually happens on a Saturday.  Not just any 'ole Saturday, even though Saturdays in and of themselves are pretty fabulous.  I'm talking about the Saturday with   no    plans.   Yes, the perfectly beautifully white canvas ready for you to create your own version of fabulousness. 

It starts early enough that I tip toe quietly out to the deck with my yoga mat, a device with my Bible app and some cool clear fresh water.  My deck looks over the lake that my husband built.  It still takes my breath away and we've lived here more than 5 years. 

It's summer but it's early and the air is crisp and the birds are so happy.  I feel that same giddy feeling I used to get on Christmas morning.  The anticipation of these moments fills me with joy.  Real joy. 

I can't describe it as quiet.  It's anything but that.  Birds and bugs and bees and hummingbirds.  It's a symphony really.  And for someone with a healthy dose of sarcasm for those trite descriptions of nature, seriously, it's like a symphony.  I feel like they let me hang out with them on these precious mornings.

I lay out my mat and go through whatever routine seems to fit the morning.  Sometimes begging the fat cat to get off of my mat.  He rolls around and begs for attention and purrs so loud I'm afraid he'll wake the others. 

I move and breathe, not with Olympic yoga aspirations, but with gratitude and joy and release.  All the while, the house is still dirty, the laundry still piled, the groceries still absent from the pantry.  And I am happy. 

I pull out my reading for the morning and let it steep into every fiber of my being.  Not just read it, I feel it. Then, the best part.  I am still.  I am quiet.  I am listening.  And in that quiet space, I am filled with a sense of strength and comfort and calm, so powerful, it sometimes takes my breath away.  And I am happy.  Truly happy.

Then I bring the rest of the world back in. I rub that fat cat's belly, tell him he needs more yoga.  I consider all of the options for the day.  Not that I'll do them all.  In fact, I smile knowing I can do absolutely nothing if that's what I choose.  I could clean, I could create, I could read, I could cook.  It's my canvas. 

Then slowly, one by one, the rest of the family rises from their slumber and the day gets more noisy and their expectations start to seep onto my canvas.   That's okay.  Because I've already had 90 perfect minutes. 


How do you spend your perfect moments?