The Neighborly Equivalent of a Song

It's somehow friendlier early in the morning.  Perhaps it is the coolness before the summer sweat simmers all the flavor out of our congeniality.  Perhaps it is the spirit of possibility still fresh before the day's inevitable jostles and sharp edges.  Perhaps we haven't yet turned on the morning news to see what new travesties nature -- or other human beings -- have inflicted on us overnight.  Perhaps it is simply that our muscles and demeanor have not yet had the chance to fist themselves into defensive postures. Or maybe there is simply a relational expansiveness early in the day that, like morning glories, opens only briefly -- beautifully -- before folding back up again until tomorrow.

Whatever the explanation, it was in delightful bloom this morning as Tir and I enjoyed a first walk through more remote portions of the neighborhood.  Sprinklers were already busy in lawns; one early riser with hose in hand was washing off his driveway -- and smiled and said, "hello."  Drivers of passing cars waved.  Even the hostas in the manicured landscaping seemed to swell into greeting, and the vibrant purple of the sage seemed to glow luminescent just for us. 

Before long I will be back at the garden, weeding out the interlopers, and trimming back the encroaching blades.  Someone, sometime in this day, will almost certainly speak a jagged edge.  But early, the day began with the neighborly equivalent of a song.