4/21/2015

campfire smoke is my new perfume


 "This morning, with her, having coffee."   --- Johnny Cash, when asked for his definition of paradise.




Sunday morning Dan and I woke up early as per Beck being wide awake and ready for the day when the clock next to our bed flashed 6:30. The sun was still hidden behind the mountains, nearing it's ascent just so that it lit the world dimly, giving a sparkle to the frost-tipped grass blades of the yard. Dan brewed a pot of coffee, french vanilla blonde roast to his liking, after which we discussed relaxing on the front porch as we usually do on our Sunday mornings. Dan peeked out the back window and saw our camp chairs still propped around the fire pit in the backyard following our roast with friends the night before, which gave him a splendid idea: we could make a fire to warm us in the cool air while the sun rose behind us. A campfire, on an early Sunday morning, over breakfast. He had the brilliant idea for the fire, and I had the brilliant idea for steak and cheese omelets. (which, in fact, was not so brilliant, seeing as I forgot what eggs do for my husband's heartburn.)

We stayed around the fire all morning long, engulfed by the quiet calmness. It's one of my favorite things about the mornings, even moreso sunday mornings, the peace. The quiet of the early morning is something else entirely, something I crave in my life. The earth is unmoved in a solemn slumber and the world seems still. It's not still, it never truly is, but it seems it. We stayed around the campfire until sweet baby b showed signs of tiredness and I snuck him upstairs to put him down for his morning nap. We stayed there just the two of us until Jace woke up. He joined us outside, at which point the sun was beating down on our backyard and mixing a delightful concoction of warmth with the fresh spring air. The fire simmered, smoke billowing in a thick cloud. Dan became antsy and started dabbling in little to-dos like watering the peas and onions in the garden. Jace brought out his new fishing pole and pretended to fish from the picnic table on the patio. We lingered like the fire that still burned softly before us, staying in the backyard with our smokey jackets and our morning faces until near lunchtime, when the sun was bright and the world was moving at a faster pace.

Each day since that lovely smokey sunday morning, I find myself craving every morning to begin that way. It is such an agreeable thought, breakfast around the campfire at sunrise each morning with the love of my life. It's an improbable thought at that, but agreeable nonetheless. There is an appeal in tradition that focuses solely on one day each week, one day in which we can find the peace that comes from being together in a quiet world. I find myself enamored in the old fashioned these days, such a sap to a world that is far from the world. Riveted by the appeal of a simple life.

Simple such as the faint smell of wood smoke always lingering somewhere in my life. In my hair, my car, the blankets on the couch.

In his beard when I kiss him.

Sunday mornings, him, and a campfire.

No comments:

Post a Comment