A windy morning's rambles

It's that time again, that dreadful time again, the season of decision-making. In the next week, I will have to decide and finalize all plans and everything necessary for those plans for the next year...summer internships, fall classes, where to live. Actually, I have until Monday to decide that. On top of that, I have two 6-page papers, and two major exams next week. And so, I act as I always do, in my classic executive-decision-making way. I sit and have my tea and breakfast.

I'm a morning person by heart. I love the mornings, the fresh air, the lack of people out. I don't take advantage of them as often as I should. To me, mornings should be a time of eating and meditation, a greeting of the day before your hard labor. It is important to greet the world and know the world, because it's something you simply can't fight (and win). Mornings should be holy (ie set apart from the rest of the day). Mornings are brilliant here, before the humid day's heat, before my Indian neighbors decide to (loudly) play cricket in the street. I'm not sure (for I catch about 1 in 1000 words in Hindi, but sometimes they speak in Spanish as well), but I think they sometimes use my driveway as a goal area, when they think I'm not looking.

Food, also, should be an intimate occasion, especially in the mornings. I am attempting to transition more into raw foods, or at least simpler ones. I love the concept of putting living foods into your body, but I think refining them is ultimately worse. Of course, if it takes an hour off of my life for every Amy's cheese enchilada I eat, then so be it. Don't get me wrong here, I'm not one of those cursed "green" food hippies. I have a fat heart.

If I have the time, I'll cook a huge breakfast, typically eggs with whatever vegetables I have around (ideally jalapenos, tomatoes, bell peppers, onions or squash) and Morningstar breakfast sausage (soy), biscuits (mainly for Bon, but I'll sample one), and sometimes pancakes with frozen fruit baked in. I'll make coffee with azucar quemada (burned sugar, like caramel) or tea and juice fresh from oranges or whatever other fruit. Top the eggs with cilantro and sit in the still morning from my perch.

I awoke after six hours of restless sleep last night, tumbled down the stairs and to the livingroom blinds, as always, to let some light in. I go crazy inside, but when I am outside (or can at least see the outdoors) I am sane again. I made some oatmeal (unrefined), cooked in apple juice, tossed with cinnamon and nutmeg, and the last of the ripe blackberries that Bon and I adore so much. Then I prepared a Thomas whole-grain bagel (the best in the world) with cream cheese and diced chives. And, lastly, some peach and ginger black tea. I'll recline on the balcony in teh sun, reading the day's news, sipping that wonderful tea. That brings me here.

Cricket has begun. Today they've chosen another driveway, and are running about with silly green paddles shouting at each other. The wind is throwing the ball in favor of the older children. Windchimes sing frantically. The air is full of pear blossoms, trumpet vine flowers and curry. I wonder if they would seem as loud if I understood them, or perhaps if the young one was less trusting. A mockingbird sings in the oak beside me. It seems that cricket is a very fickle game. They seem, however, very good at making decisions.