The Native Iowan

A chilly Sunday morn here. Early temps about 10c/50f. It starts warming up as the sun peaks over the eastern ridges. As the day warms the valley fills with a thick vapour. Now, at 830am, there remains thin wisps hovering in trees and over the little pond. Very nice scenery. Very nice spot to wake up…

I woke this morn about 4am. My aging bladder does not cooperate any more so these early morn wake-ups are a way of life. Slide out of the nice warm bed, step onto the cold floor boards, shiver in a waking manner. Pump the bilges…

It was bright moonlight at 4am. I looked twice to see if Id left a light on in the kennels. The moonlight was casting shadows. I was not sure if it was my fault, or a happy effect of morning moon beams.

I tend to “sit” in the early hours of the morn. Like my aging bladder, my well worn and much damaged skeleton gets sore, creaks and groans if I sleep too much. So rather than go back to bed, during these early morn wake-ups, I wrap in a big afghan-blanket my Mother “hooked” for me, and travel the back roads of my mind…

The house here in the valley is a big, old monstrosity. Hallow as an empty caldron. High ceilinged, huge windowed, and very much open to the environment. When I first started visiting the Land of Aus I was baffled why houses here were not/ were seldom heated. My early years of visiting in “Winter” saw me thinking I was freezing. And I was. Flying in from the Tropics, from 30c/90f temps to what an Iowan would consider a “balmy”, 10c/50f was not easy. I was seldom prepared. Never really had the right clothes to wear.

But, as we know, becoming acclimatised takes time but makes a huge difference. Just like folks traveling from Iowa in winter to the Tropics, the drastic changes are at times harsh, even severe. But once you live through an Iowa winter, from woe to go, you find that, in February, after 3 months of subzero temps with deadly windchill, Its kinda warm when you get a “nice” sunny 0c/32f day.

So I sit most mornings.

Sitting comes to me from the eastern/ Zen side of my experiences. I won’t go as far as calling it “meditation”, but I learned to “sit” decades ago. Meditation can be work. Sitting is a pleasure.

When I “sit” I concentrate, think about my breathing. I clear my sinus passages, use my lungs to their capacity, hold my spine straight, and simply go through my lists. Walk through my recent experiences, exercise my memory, dose, dream, write, ruminate and travel far, wide and fast.

I know I am not doing it right when I find my head sagging, my breathing turn into snoring. I end up with a stiff neck if I dont wake up, adjust, come back to conscience sitting.

So I sit… Im in a room that is all windows. What a may be called a “Sun Room”. The Britts would call it a “Solarium”. Iowans would call it a “Porch”.

So I sit… I listen to the world around me… the birds, my dogs, the deer, the wind, the weather. The old house talking, telling tales and complaining. My house complains a lot.

It is a great place to “Sit”…

Me, in my Granny-blanket, as I write and ruminate.

Funny thing, as I write this, a second round of vapours drop into the valley. There is a ghostly, spiritual sense that comes with the wisps of vapour refilling the bowl that is the valley…

It’s warming up. Im going to have to get set work done. No bloodsport this Sunday.

I promised my 13yrold friend, MShelly, gourmet hot dogs today.

MShell is BigG’s daughter. They come out quite regularly to enjoy the farm, and let me feed them. BigG isn’t the world’s best cook. A single Dad, I think he tends to do what most modern dads do, order out. So when they come I like to feed them very good food.

Years ago MShell commented that her favourite food, her very best most enjoyable meal was “Mike’s Gourmet HotDogs”.

Thats one sure way to get Mike to cook for you. He revels in compliments.

More later

Big smiles