Every morning I sit either in the kitchen or (weather permitting) the back porch. The view up into the back yard is slowly painted alive from the light of the sun that rises over the house, as it's done every day since this place was constructed in 1825. Lately, I've been waiting for the day lilies to open. There's a line of them sitting on the top of the granite wall that forms the rear border of the courtyard. I know almost nothing about plants so I'm perplexed as to why they haven't opened yet. What's taking them so long?!
Like most things of beauty, it's worth the wait. A couple of the lilies are peeking open this morning and it's looking like the rest of them (a quick count comes up with about 150) are soon to follow.
I have Björk's Medúlla playing on the iPod at this moment. Last night I had dinner with an old friend and his family. After the mayhem was over and his insanely cute kids had been put to bed, me and Bob retired to his basement listening room. Bob happened to have Medúlla on vinyl so we gave side one a listen later in the evening. Stunning is the word. Obviously the sound emanated from the speakers, but the voices seemed to float right there in three dimensions, an aural holograph.
This morning I just needed to hear it again. There's something very enjoyable about these juxtapositions of technologies and textures — the old house, the digital audio, the flowers, the computer, the human voice. A life mashup? Yes, I like that.
I suppose that giving an activity as ordinary as the taking in of the morning shouldn't be given a title. On the other hand, there's really nothing ordinary about the beauty of the human voice, or the written word, or a new day lily.