I know lots of people who do, but I don’t. (Normally, that is. This photo is an anomaly.) The warm shelter of the quilt is too cozy, my body insists on just a few more minutes — and then a few more, and a few more. But those stalwart folk who rule their bodies with an iron will, rise and go outdoors and reap rewards I know nothing about. One of them is definitely the poet William Stafford:
Just lying on the couch and being happy.
Only humming a little, the quiet sound in the head.
Trouble is busy elsewhere at the moment, it has
so much to do in the world.
People who might judge are mostly asleep; they can’t
monitor you all the time, and sometimes they forget.
When dawn flows over the hedge you can
get up and act busy.
Little corners like this, pieces of Heaven
left lying around, can be picked up and saved.
People won’t even see that you have them,
they are so light and easy to hide.
Later in the day you can act like the others.
You can shake your head. You can frown.
(“Any Morning” by William Stafford from The Way It Is. © Graywolf Press, 1999.)
That final couplet is so persuasive I almost think that tomorrow morning I may arise early — in quest of pieces of Heaven —