Early morning at the Moose, the name we affectionately call our tiny cabin built in the late 20s or early 30s in Rabun County. At 710 square feet, one doesn’t as much live in it as wear it. I’m up before dawn, even on my day off. Habit.
Too early for Kate. She’s a normal person and, therefore, able to sleep later. The dog gets up with me and follows me into the kitchen, his claws clattering on the painted wood floors. Not much that can be done. Can’t clean the kitchen and it’s too early to make breakfast. Both would be too noisy and would wake the dead–aka my aforementioned snoozing spouse.
Instead, I make a cup of coffee and slip outside to the screened porch. The dog does likewise, minus the coffee. It’s his favorite place to be at the Moose. He has a large bed that is on short legs, giving it just enough height so that he can easily survey his kingdom. He is quite content to sit on the porch and do nothing.
I like the porch as well. Yet, I am sometimes uncomfortable with doing nothing especially at a time of day when I would otherwise be much in motion. I am quite active at 4:30 a.m. Nature of the job. Not this morning. This morning I have nothing to do…nothing.
So I sit and do…well, nothing, which is a statement I find to be contradictive. Think about it. When we have nothing to do, we do nothing. But if we’re doing nothing, doesn’t that imply we’re doing something? Doesn’t that mean that when we have nothing to do and actually do it, we’re really doing something and no longer have nothing to do as by doing so, we would have done all the nothing.
I pondered this for a moment until I started to get dizzy from so much circular thinking. I settled myself into the rocker. I figured if I were going to do nothing, I should be comfortable while doing it.
I have always loved the early morning when the world has yet to stir. I first discovered how wonderful a time it can be back in my college days. That was when I was often ending many of my days at this hour, not starting them. Before the Sun arrives, Earth slumbers quietly, giving the illusion that the world is truly at peace. That feeling that you are the only one on the planet is a special one. You have the moon and stars all to yourself. Good friends, indeed. The dog yawns as if reading my thoughts and reminding me that he’s part of the experience, too.
No moon and stars this morning. Clouds were keeping us from sharing a lover’s gaze. Raindrops, not moonbeams, were covering our tin roof.
So I sat with nothing to do but listen to the tintinnabulation of an early morning shower. The rhythm stead, soothing, not frantic. A light breeze helped our wind chimes play their song. The tree frogs were providing a nice background pulse that made this musical performance complete. Even my beloved Beethoven couldn't write a symphony so beautiful. Although, his Ninth comes close.
And I sat there with nothing to do all the while that sweet symphony washed over me. It was as though Creation was putting on a concert of thanks in honor of the Creator, like King David dancing before the Lord. As I sat there with nothing to do, it occurred to me that perhaps I should give thanks as well.
Then, I was compelled to utter a statement that I have spoken many times with great sarcasm. However, this time, I spoke it with utmost sincerity.
I told God, “Thanks for nothing.” And I meant it. Because if I had had something to do, I would have missed an incredible show.
