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If there's a month I hoard, it's the one we're in, all 30 of its days that dart by despite any effort on my part to insist on their loitering and lingering.
On these June days before the sun makes its official appearance and the sky is a blend of night with the promise of morning not far off, the adult world already has its megaphone out, summoning me to get ready and get going.
Up and at 'em.
No time to dilly dally.
Chop chop.
Be on your way.
I'm reluctant to respond to such demands, a bit resistant, a tad annoyed by such internal directives, especially on these June mornings.
Who wants to be an adult anyway?
There's no future in it at all.
So after my morning barn chores -- not really what I think of as work since I enjoy feeding Tucker and Thunder their breakfast, giving them a hug and reminding them that their mommy loves them -- I resist the intrusive tick-tock of the clock in my head and park myself on an end chair on my back porch instead, where I face the barn, nurse a cup of coffee and collect my thoughts.
I don't feel like dashing off.
I hate deadline pressure.
The porch is more my pace, the place to inhale the day's possibilities, to enjoy the view, to marvel at how morning's arrival never looks quite the same from day to day.
Each has its own amazing splendor -- never what I'd dismiss as ho-hum ordinary in my assessment.
I am an appreciative visitor in this art gallery that illustrates the new day.
Morning porch time in June is a good way to launch a day, to crowd out reality initially or to embrace it immediately. It depends on my mood, I suppose.
Sometimes I consider that the day ahead could be my very last one on earth, not that that's a morbid thought necessarily, but a healthy reminder that we all have a beginning and an ending, and sometimes that's sooner than later.
A little assessment isn't such a bad thing.
Help me live this day well, Lord, I say to myself when such random thoughts might occur to me. Help me to do what I'm supposed to be doing.
For the moment anyway, it's morning porch-sitting time.
The thought occurs to me that I could extend this enjoyment and just "R.O."
Of course, I don't "report off," because I'm too responsible and that would involve a high-mileage guilt trip on my part if I did.
That's hardly the frame of mind I want to be in on the back porch, which is always waiting for me, fortunately, welcoming me back for evening mental health sessions as well.
Porch time is a good way to end the day, too, and to realize the evening sky is every bit as remarkable as the morning ones.
"There you are!" Better Half said, poking his head out the kitchen door the other evening to find me -- big surprise here -- on the back porch.
From the sound of it, he was about to round up a posse.
"You left me all alone and came out here to be by yourself," he pretend whined, no sooner having said that than realizing Herald the Cat was sprawled out on top of the table next to me. I detected some jealousy here, I think.
"Come on over here, you big baby," I patted the seat next to me.
"You're just in time for the art exhibit."