I could write a post all about our family's not-infrequent routine of waking up and then playing around in bed together for a while, complete with hide-and-seek in the blankets, rolling around, etc. But today's post is actually about, well... the morning sunshine. (Sorry for the letdown.)
While I try to sleep in on the weekends (since I'm up in the five o'clock hour every weekday, and usually not in bed eight or even seven hours before that), I have some very strong circadian rhythms that don't allow me to violate that schedule much. So I was up at 6:30am today and the rest of the family, miraculously, has been stayed quietly slumbering, allowing me to enjoy a quiet and peaceful Sunday morning.
As I walked downstairs, I did something that has become somewhat of a new routine: pulling open the blinds on the windows around our lower level to illuminate that darkened space. But today that simple action transported me back to nine years ago when I was living in France.
One of the first things I noticed that was different when I arrived there was a bit of architecture: shutters that actually worked. On old buildings there were, of course, the classic wooden shutters on hinges that you could pull shut. But more often there were plastic or metal roll-down shutters that you'd wind down at the end of the day. You can leave them slightly ajar to let a small amount of light stream in, but most frequently the slats were shut tight together, truly cutting off the outside world.
It would amaze me how almost without fail, every home at night would have the volets closed when it was time to go to bed or just be alone for the night. If as a missionary you approached a house and could see all the windows were closed, you'd know that you were probably better off moving on because either no one was home, or they would not be in the mood to receive anyone.
Of course, the flip side of this is that every morning when you wake up, you wind up the volets and let in the beautiful sunshine and feel as if the world is greeting you with a warm hug. I recall running along the cobble-stone streets in Coutances early in the morning, marveling at the peacefulness of the town as everyone was still cloistered inside, the only open windows being on the boulangerie next door, where the baker was already hard at work baking the day's breads and pastries. That sweet aroma is probably one of the few things that could entice me out of the apartment before 7 am and which made jogging a true pleasure. As I would turn back toward home at the end of my jog, I would start to see the occasional signs of life as the shades were rolled up and a few early birds would start stepping out into the streets.
I didn't know how novel the sun would seem just a short few years later when Cherry and I rented a basement apartment for the first 4 years of our marriage. Though it was a walk-out and most of the basement was above ground, our windows were only half-size and frequently shaded or obstructed completely with our window A/C units, meaning that sunshine was in short supply. We loved our location and had a great deal on rent, all told, but that was one thing we missed. It was such a revelation moving into our house in Takoma Park, which is a two-story brick home, square, about 25 feet long each side. Two windows adorn every side & level of the house, offering enough natural light that turning on the electric ones overhead is often unnecessary. We can also see the whole neighborhood around us, and be seen.
Given the need to control light levels and privacy, we've replaced or installed new, beautiful wide-slatted blinds in most of the windows around the house. The pull shut pretty tightly doing a good job of blocking light - though still not nearly as good as the roll-down shutters in France. Yet as I stepped downstairs this morning and pulled the cord to open them up, I felt for a brief moment as if I were back in Angers, having just hopped down from my bunk. I'd cross the room to the huge double windows that occupied most of the exterior wall of our city-center studio apartment. I grab the pole and wind up the aluminum shutters, revealing the street and world below. Light would stream across our desks, which sat side-by-side right below the windows, as we started our daily studies.
If there's anything I miss about being on the mission, (besides living in France, speaking French most of the day, walking down old streets, eating amazing bread, pastries & other cuisine, meeting lots of interesting people & being invited into their homes) it's just that time that I had to sit quietly and uninterrupted at my desk each morning and night, studying and writing. With work and especially a wife a children, there is rarely the quality - and certainly not the quantity - of time to sit quietly, write and reflect that I used to have. Even in college amidst an insane academic load, I would still take time to sit, reflect and write regularly. Not so much now. And I miss it.
But sometimes, in a rare peaceful moment when my body has said that it's time to get up despite the protestations of my mind, opening up those blinds reveals both the world outside, and reminds me to sit and open up the world inside of me as well.
While I try to sleep in on the weekends (since I'm up in the five o'clock hour every weekday, and usually not in bed eight or even seven hours before that), I have some very strong circadian rhythms that don't allow me to violate that schedule much. So I was up at 6:30am today and the rest of the family, miraculously, has been stayed quietly slumbering, allowing me to enjoy a quiet and peaceful Sunday morning.
As I walked downstairs, I did something that has become somewhat of a new routine: pulling open the blinds on the windows around our lower level to illuminate that darkened space. But today that simple action transported me back to nine years ago when I was living in France.
One of the first things I noticed that was different when I arrived there was a bit of architecture: shutters that actually worked. On old buildings there were, of course, the classic wooden shutters on hinges that you could pull shut. But more often there were plastic or metal roll-down shutters that you'd wind down at the end of the day. You can leave them slightly ajar to let a small amount of light stream in, but most frequently the slats were shut tight together, truly cutting off the outside world.
It would amaze me how almost without fail, every home at night would have the volets closed when it was time to go to bed or just be alone for the night. If as a missionary you approached a house and could see all the windows were closed, you'd know that you were probably better off moving on because either no one was home, or they would not be in the mood to receive anyone.
Not my apartment in France, but an example of the "volets roulants"
Of course, the flip side of this is that every morning when you wake up, you wind up the volets and let in the beautiful sunshine and feel as if the world is greeting you with a warm hug. I recall running along the cobble-stone streets in Coutances early in the morning, marveling at the peacefulness of the town as everyone was still cloistered inside, the only open windows being on the boulangerie next door, where the baker was already hard at work baking the day's breads and pastries. That sweet aroma is probably one of the few things that could entice me out of the apartment before 7 am and which made jogging a true pleasure. As I would turn back toward home at the end of my jog, I would start to see the occasional signs of life as the shades were rolled up and a few early birds would start stepping out into the streets.
I didn't know how novel the sun would seem just a short few years later when Cherry and I rented a basement apartment for the first 4 years of our marriage. Though it was a walk-out and most of the basement was above ground, our windows were only half-size and frequently shaded or obstructed completely with our window A/C units, meaning that sunshine was in short supply. We loved our location and had a great deal on rent, all told, but that was one thing we missed. It was such a revelation moving into our house in Takoma Park, which is a two-story brick home, square, about 25 feet long each side. Two windows adorn every side & level of the house, offering enough natural light that turning on the electric ones overhead is often unnecessary. We can also see the whole neighborhood around us, and be seen.
Given the need to control light levels and privacy, we've replaced or installed new, beautiful wide-slatted blinds in most of the windows around the house. The pull shut pretty tightly doing a good job of blocking light - though still not nearly as good as the roll-down shutters in France. Yet as I stepped downstairs this morning and pulled the cord to open them up, I felt for a brief moment as if I were back in Angers, having just hopped down from my bunk. I'd cross the room to the huge double windows that occupied most of the exterior wall of our city-center studio apartment. I grab the pole and wind up the aluminum shutters, revealing the street and world below. Light would stream across our desks, which sat side-by-side right below the windows, as we started our daily studies.
If there's anything I miss about being on the mission, (besides living in France, speaking French most of the day, walking down old streets, eating amazing bread, pastries & other cuisine, meeting lots of interesting people & being invited into their homes) it's just that time that I had to sit quietly and uninterrupted at my desk each morning and night, studying and writing. With work and especially a wife a children, there is rarely the quality - and certainly not the quantity - of time to sit quietly, write and reflect that I used to have. Even in college amidst an insane academic load, I would still take time to sit, reflect and write regularly. Not so much now. And I miss it.
But sometimes, in a rare peaceful moment when my body has said that it's time to get up despite the protestations of my mind, opening up those blinds reveals both the world outside, and reminds me to sit and open up the world inside of me as well.
