I had planned to wake up this morning thinking about sleeping in an extra hour and turning back the clocks after I enjoyed that extra hour of sleep. I got up at 6, and discovered that it was now 5 am. So here I am. I have an idea to pair up my recent habit of getting up at 4 and the time change, and start getting up at 4 every day. I predict that won't actually happen.
What woke me up this morning wasn't actually the clock--it was a thought about my first wife, Arlina. I thought about something she told me shortly before she died. It had something to do with giving me permission to find someone else eventually, and to keep taking pictures. She knew what I would need to be happy again, much more so than I did at that moment.
I'm not sure why this thought presented itself this morning, other than that it is coming up on the anniversary of her death. It will be 14 years on the 18th. Such a lifetime ago.
She was right, of course. I found someone else to share my life with, and I kept taking pictures, and both have sustained me and led me into this life I have now.
I went back and read my LJ entry for this day back in 2004. She had been home on hospice for a week or so, and I was up waiting to change the bag on the pain control pump that would eventually become not enough for her pain. I was tired and frustrated, and wrote a bit about that. I was pretty honest about how I was feeling, probably because I was so tired.
So I cried a bit this morning at the memory of the pain. It doesn't really hurt anymore, but I remember what it felt like then.
I think about the day ahead of me, and how normal it looks from the vantage point of the early morning. I have to go into work for a while to see a student, maybe take a walk, sit out back and think about how I ought to pull out Malida's overgrown tomato plants.
Two thoughts come to mind. The first is that normal days are really a gift to be savored. The second is that there really is no such thing as a normal day.