Sunday morning: 6:34 a.m. I awake from a deep sleep to the sound of two perfect notes.
“What a nice doorbell,” I think to myself.
And then, “That’s not our doorbell.”
I lay there for a few seconds trying to orient myself in time, space and reality.
“If it’s not our doorbell, what is it? Was it the tail end of a dream?”
I have no memory of it. I get up and use the bathroom and climb back in bed to think. Soon, I have fallen back to sleep. The mystery of the doorbell can wait.
At 8:32 a.m. I wake again, this time for good. I shuffle into a kitchen filled with dirty dishes and wish I wasn’t the first one up. Apparently, I’m not feeling very motivated this morning. I open the door on the dog’s bedroom (i.e. bathroom.) She does the lovely downward dog yoga pose. It’s part of her wake-up ritual.
We head out on the deck for the rest of her morning ritual. She smells the traces of some creature of the night, an unwelcome visitor in her backyard. Her territory has been breached and she must fill her senses with the smell of it. I lean on the deck railing my head resting on my hands in lazy resignation as the dog hurries to follow her impulses.
I view this from a distance inside my own mind. I note my posture, my morning attitude and realize that it could be different, that this morning is tainted by the weariness that I bring to it. This weariness is not inherent in it. It’s all mine. I watch the dog in silence, letting her explore and get her fill of this morning. Suddenly, I remember the notes, their perfect intonation, their beauty, their mystery. Every morning should start with these two notes.
Those notes. There is something more. The idea of dissonance pops into my head. I’m out of harmony with myself, with my world and often with other people. There is a mathematical reality in those notes that points the way to an equation that was designed to solve itself. Harmony: the perfect blending of sound can be applied to life. It’s the dissonance that is causing me grief. I am out of tune. The notes of my life are discordant. They offend my ears, all my senses. Nothing seems to fit. Nothing sounds right because I’m off. I, the instrument of my own fate, badly need tuning.
I stand up straight and cross my arms across my chest to help reinforce this idea, to build a stronger base for it as it rests on my shoulders and starts to flow through me. As it flows down from my head to my arms, I realize that I must write about it before the idea slips away, before those two notes are a forgotten memory, lost forever in the land of unknown dreams. I hurry to the computer and begin. The two notes take the form of words. They look back at me from the page and thank me for recognizing them, their beauty and the message they brought to me this Sunday morning at 6:34 a.m.