The “Morning Table” in my home appears to be ordinary furniture. It is a small round table that sits on a lyre pedestal. The morning table is positioned by a window and holds things I need to write, books I am reading , a lamp and a coffee cup. I watch the light change at the morning table, while Cash and Christopher Robin sleep close by. I write what is laid on my heart at this little second-hand table. The morning table is like an old friend that knows your dreams and keeps your secrets.
I have had the habit of writing for a very long time. I have journals of letters written to each of my children as they were growing up-and with five children, that is a lot of writing. I can only write truth, I have learned-and I can only write what I find ” good”. In this way, I have ended up with a collection of little celebrations and records of things that I love. I find myself looking, at any given moment for things to add to my accounts-and I have found this a good practice. It seems we often find what we are looking for, I think, so it may as well be something pleasant.
I have learned to find great delight in kind words, sometimes spoken by strangers as well as the cheerful boasting of a mockingbird singing in June. I love the hushed sound of children playing in the snow-well, I just love snow altogether, it falls so seldom at the rabbit patch. I love the smell of woodsmoke in October. I love rain and Thanksgiving. I really love the Christmas season-even wrapping the presents. I love the sky at all times and I love poetry. I love a lot of things and I am always realising more beautiful things to love –out of habit.
The night was foggy when I went out tonight. I could see but a few stars. The night choir did not offer a song and the air had not the slightest motion. Now, I know there is a beauty in silent stillness. There was more life in those moments than I had expected and I will remember that too, as part of my collection.
Living on the rabbit patch has humbled me with its’ extraordinary simplicity. I do not have to live in a frantic state for I have seen the Hand of the artist, and It never rests or ceases in generosity. The “morning table” is the place I remember these things . It is from the “morning table” that I send my love letters out for the world-my account of things I find “good.”