Moving has brought a shift in the pattern of our days.
Having been those who would faff our way to a late bed in England, we’re finding that bedtime has to be prompt so that we’re ready for early morning activity.
Juggling book business on both sides of the Atlantic, with a six hour time difference, means the day kicks off at 6am. While Jonathan begins work, this is potentially a precious moment before the clamour of the day begins.
Creaky floors, and seemingly supersonic hearing, mean it’s an art form to make it out of bed (via the bathroom) to the main room without little feet racing to accompany you. If we do manage to delay that declarative ‘I’m awake’ from Rufus followed by urgent breakfast needs, it’s wonderfully cooler and quieter than any other moment.
Stealth moves meant I made it out of the door for a run this morning. It’s just a couple of hundred yards to the Danada Reserve. A peaceful wetland with abundant wildlife and a trail threading through it. Apparently there’s a stunning lake at the end of it – I’ve yet to catch a glimpse as I’m not quite up to the twelve mile round trip. This morning I had more than a glimpse of a young doe staring me down as I approached along the path.
After the early starts, the days unfold in the usual ways with routines made up of naps and meals and stories and people and playing.
Without the disciplines of outside work, I’m grateful for the patterns that make up our days. While I know I’m anchored by more than this, it helps to counter that feeling of drifting as I wait for the outlines of my days to filled by the relationships, purposes and colour that comes with having lived in a place for a while.