I was raised to open the house up in the morning. That means opening the windows (on the ground floor), and curtains, and blinds, and letting in the light and air. At night, we close the windows (on the ground floor) and the curtains, pull the shades, shut out the world, shut out the darkness.
My house always feels cocooned in the night. Fabric over blinds or shades pulled tight. It's soft and glowy inside. Lamps illuminate, never an overhead light. We keep the world out. We are vulnerable in our home clothes, our pjs, barefoot, unadorned, in our post-bath skin. We are soft and need protection from outside, from peeping eyes, from moths, and katydids, and crickets, from the night. I love the night song.
The morning is bright. Everything opens. Light, air, birds, music. We are vulnerable still in our early morning beds, one foot in dreams, one foot in backtowork, whattodotoday, reality. The quiet of dawn tricks us into thinking we are safe. Once I shower and put on clothes and make up and shoes (my armor) I am safe. The world can come in. I am in armor after all.
In my bedroom tonight, the sound of those late summer bugs is so so loud. It makes me remember sleeping at church camp in my family's cabin. I remember it almost felt like camping with the thinness of the walls of that cabin and light from the lamppost outside flooding into my window. I couldn't shut the window or the curtain to block out the light or the sounds, it was too hot. Exhaustion drove me to sleep with or without the light. The late-summer bugs chirped me to sleep.
Dark clings to the dawn later in August than in June. This morning I heard the katydids, cicadas, crickets, and the robins and sparrows. There was this clash, this overlap of songs as one group of singers faded in and the other faded out. It's a bittersweet time of year. I can see fall and winter coming. A few more hot sticky days of sun and pools and ice cream and bubbles and barbecues, just a few more.