Hurkle Durkling

Yves gets up early to catch the first worm. I sense him slipping out of bed, tiptoeing from the bedroom and softly closing the door.

I luxuriate.

I stretch in every direction, then nestle deeper beneath the duvet. My feet find the cool pockets untouched by warm bodies, and I wiggle my toes with quiet delight. Three more hours before I must rise. This is my favorite part of the morning.

The dreams that visit now are the ones I will remember. I gather fragments from earlier dreams before they drift away, leaving myself small clues so I can later record them.

Then comes the hour of Hurkle Durkling.

A thrush pours its operatic song through the open window. Silence follows.

A dust mote drifts through a shaft of sunlight.

I tip my pillow a little higher. My neck lets go. My shoulder follows.

My thoughts wander to my mother. Her walker slightly out of reach. Another offer of help she may refuse.

Gratitude arrives without invitation—for this bed, this home, this life, this astonishing world.

Then sorrow. Somewhere, someone is saying goodbye. Somewhere, someone is hungry. Somewhere, someone is alone.

I hear myself snort.

Was I asleep?

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

The veil between sleep and wakefulness is so thin I drift back and forth, content to linger on either side.

"Hurkle Durkle" is a Scottish expression, more than two centuries old, meaning to lie in bed long after it's time to get up. One of its earliest appearances is in John Jamieson's Etymological Dictionary of the Scottish Language, published in 1808. I like to imagine he appreciated a languid morning himself. (and maybe a wee dram of Scotch whiskey too)

The phrase has mostly disappeared.

I think it deserves a revival.

Hurkle Durklers unite!