A Day in the Life

By Jim Hunter

This morning I woke up, got out of bed, skipped dragging a comb across my head (sorry John Lennon), and started my morning chores, my daily routine. My every day routine.

I took care of something I’d been putting off for a couple of hours, took my meds, started the coffee, fed the dog, made the bed, got dressed, walked the dog, put the bird feeders out, and walked upstairs for morning prayers that often begin, “New every morning is your love, great God of Light.” That’s what I did this morning, yesterday morning, the day before that, and I will do this tomorrow and the day after that.

I would like to paint this as a pastoral pattern, a lovely routine of oneness with nature that is musically accompanied by birds singing to the tune of “In the Garden.” Truth is, many mornings this feels more stale than new. It’s chores, the first chunk of my day’s to-do list. I go through the motions, telling my dog to quit messing around and mess and wondering why I spend money to feed thieving squirrels. It doesn’t feel like harmony, it feels boring and I try to avoid boredom so much I have been known to play Candy Crush on my phone for very long periods of time. Somehow checking out feels better than being bored. Ah, the life of a retired contemplative.

I know what I am supposed to do. I am supposed to offer thanks for the day, be present to the here and now, pay attention to each of my senses, notice the wonder that engulfs me, and hush the persistent drive to get things done. Actually, that in itself feels like a chore, but I give it a whirl. At first it doesn’t help but I yearn for something more than sleep walking through the day wishing something exciting would happen. Give thanks, be present...

I am not sure if it’s distraction or being present but I notice the crow that has been venturing closer to the house so she can peck at spilled bird seed. She caws four times and a friend wings in from the woods joining her for a snack. Later, an indigo bunting sings in the tree, the rhododendrons bloom on the hill, and a chickadee that has been pecking upside down on the bottom of the feeder cake lets go and silently sticks his landing after executing a perfect half gainer. I’m even amused by the squirrels chasing each other because it strikes me that they not only steal from me and the birds, they don’t want to share with their own.

God’s word in creation? Harmony? I try to grasp it and it’s gone. I take a breath and re-calibrate my tone. Don’t grasp, breathe. Don’t march through the day, saunter down the path. Enjoy.

I know that tomorrow I’ll wake up, get out of bed and be out of tune. Perhaps though, I’ll remember to say, “Thank you Lord for pups, coffee, and crows.”

Probably not squirrels—until I’ve had my coffee.