and the morning

And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.

For me, not a Jew, a day begins not with evening but with morning, often beginning in early wee hours - - which I've loved, liked, enjoyed for decades; most memorably my Time from late October 2010 past mid-January 2011, when I was living through and into the last of my cardiologist's prognosis of two to five months to live. I was set on being awake to enjoy life to the max, where, for me, enjoyment is not doing exciting things, but simply Being, and being aware of it. I took lessons from simply Being, and learned very much about myself in that short, "encapsulated' end-or-beginning Time!

So, Being: for me, it begins again every morning. Wake. Open eyes, see darkness. Contemplate waking dream, whether it was memeorable enough to carry into my new day. Raise head slightly to look at clock. Swing round and sit up, feet on floor. Lean forward to rise, using walker to stand up straight and steady (when you get to this age, you damn well better be mindful lest you fall, falls in the elderly are a major cause of death). Turn, leave cool bedroom and close door. Mind not to bang hands into furniture and raise an instant bruise. Press button to start the coffee I prepared last evening. Sacrifice to Father Nature. Put in one ear so I can hear when the coffee's ready and when Linda opens the bedroom door an hour or so from now. Pause until the ear activates with its ring-a-ling to tell me it's ready, willing, and able.

In this fading Holiday Season special Time the day after Epiphany when the Christmas Tree is still up, switch it on and enjoy the light of Christ warming the room.

All this contemplating a new Morning of life leads up to how, why, and when it's best: it's best when I open my laptop and, instead of News, spot what promises to be a memorable and distracting read in The Atlantic or The New Yorker. This morning in The Atlantic, "What Kind Of Man Was Anthony Bourdain?"

Bourdain, "Tony" they called him, who - - far less mature and on top of the world than we thought, crushed so many of us by, like any brokenhearted teenage boy in love - - ended his seemingly brilliant life because of his anguish about a photo of his sweetheart with another man.

Anthony Bourdain, whose television programs were the all Time topmost best ever for taking us totally out of and away from the worries of life. I could disappear into "The Honeymooners" and into "The Carol Burnett Show," but never anywhere as thoroughly as going somewhere strange with Anthony Bourdain, to meet the ordinary people who lived and worked and ate there,

and eating something weird with Anthony. In his end, it turned out that he was no different from, and no less ordinary, and even weaker than, I am.

Starting my new day absorbed in a read that takes me away.

Mind, I don't need to go far: StAndrewsBay, the Pass, and a ship just leaving port, are out the window to my left; plants: a light and airy lily that's not blooming at the moment, a struggling orchid, a tall healthy greenery with its single bloom on top, a red rose poinsettia that's beyond lovely, the last blossom or two on a Christmas cactus. To my right, a blooming lily that fills the room with a hint of sweet fragrance; a strong, lasting poinsettia, pink leaves edged with green. And directly in front of me, the Christmas Tree whose ornaments are so personal and light is soft and warm, keeping me in Christmas Time.

A mug of hot black, and a bread and butter plate with four saltines, a fork-pressed mix of chicken liver paté and butter & black pepper, a butter knife for spreading my breakfast, and the morning, a new day.

RSF&PTL