Regulated
This morning began slowly. I was in the hammock. My youngest daughter climbed in beside me for a while before wandering off to play. One of the dogs decided there was just enough room for him too, curling himself into the space between us as though he’d been invited all along.
It was wonderfully uneventful.
It’s also their old school’s summer fair today. For a moment we thought about going. The girls would love to see some old friends again. Then I caught myself thinking about parking. About arriving early. About sitting in traffic. About trying to squeeze into roads never designed for hundreds of cars.
And something unexpected happened.
My body remembered.
Two years ago, that feeling was normal. Every morning seemed to begin with rushing. Breakfasts eaten too quickly. Uniforms. Shoes. School bags. Clock watching. Traffic. Trying to get everyone out of the house while staying patient enough to begin the day well.
I don’t think we realised how much those mornings were asking of us until they stopped.
The strange thing about living in a constant state of hurry is that it becomes invisible. You assume everyone feels like that. You assume that’s simply what mornings are. Only afterwards do you notice how much noise you were carrying.
Today looked very different.
There was no rush. No countdown. No raised voices.
Just sunshine. A hammock. A dog asking for cuddles. A daughter beside me.
Time for tea. Time to breathe.
Perhaps that’s why I find myself returning to the hammock so often. Not because remarkable things happen there. Quite the opposite.
Nothing much happens at all.
And sometimes, you don’t realise how much noise you’ve been carrying until everything goes quiet.
