I strain to see the lighted face of the old digital clock that has continued to run long beyond its years. Without my glasses, everything takes on a softer shape and I have to orient myself like the visually impaired person that I am. I know the alarm I set on my phone will go off in 15 minutes and I could probably go back to sleep for another half hour, but my mind is prompting me to be awake and I decide to let it, forcing me to get up out of bed.
Quietly finding my robe in the dark and reaching for my socks and Birkenstock sandals, I put on my glasses and head out the door. Though having coffee with my husband is a lovely thing to do on a Sunday morning, I have a very strong need to get outside with the dog to feel the cool morning air on my face, hear the rustling of whatever leaves have remained on the trees this winter day, and witness the last twinkling of the stars before the sun rises to overwhelm the darkness with its light. Something about this time of day fills me with joy unspeakable. The hours are yet a blank canvas and I do not know what will be expressed upon them and through them. Whether the brush strokes will be beautiful and flowing or of harsher tones has yet to be revealed. My imaginary paintbrush hesitates.
I get a big mug of coffee and go to the computer to check to see if there are any messages of importance. The dog curls into a ball in the chair next to me as the sky continues to lighten in anticipation of the dawn. I want to freeze this moment and expand upon it. I want to accomplish any number of things within this timeless space.
My workplace area is cluttered with boxes that have not been unpacked since my last time at the Market before Christmas. There is a stack of papers and books off-loaded by our oldest son who left them here before returning to college. The new silk dress, my exciting thrift store find from yesterday, remains draped over my sewing chair. The closet needs to be reorganized. I need to get back to my work-outs at the gym so some of these clothes will fit better. Endless to-do lists threaten to cloud my peaceful moment and I have to willfully shut them out. This is not a time for work. This is a sacred moment of quiet to meditate on what it means to live this life--not the practical answers for living it.
Just as I start to contemplate whether to continue reading a book I'm enjoying, write a journal entry or better yet, pray--it is Sunday morning after all--I hear the bedroom door open and my husband head for the kitchen to fix his mug of coffee. What has felt like five minutes has been over an hour I suddenly realize. I put aside my solitary tranquility, take another look at the changing colors of the sky and head down the hall to re-engage with my world.
Quietly finding my robe in the dark and reaching for my socks and Birkenstock sandals, I put on my glasses and head out the door. Though having coffee with my husband is a lovely thing to do on a Sunday morning, I have a very strong need to get outside with the dog to feel the cool morning air on my face, hear the rustling of whatever leaves have remained on the trees this winter day, and witness the last twinkling of the stars before the sun rises to overwhelm the darkness with its light. Something about this time of day fills me with joy unspeakable. The hours are yet a blank canvas and I do not know what will be expressed upon them and through them. Whether the brush strokes will be beautiful and flowing or of harsher tones has yet to be revealed. My imaginary paintbrush hesitates.
I get a big mug of coffee and go to the computer to check to see if there are any messages of importance. The dog curls into a ball in the chair next to me as the sky continues to lighten in anticipation of the dawn. I want to freeze this moment and expand upon it. I want to accomplish any number of things within this timeless space.
My workplace area is cluttered with boxes that have not been unpacked since my last time at the Market before Christmas. There is a stack of papers and books off-loaded by our oldest son who left them here before returning to college. The new silk dress, my exciting thrift store find from yesterday, remains draped over my sewing chair. The closet needs to be reorganized. I need to get back to my work-outs at the gym so some of these clothes will fit better. Endless to-do lists threaten to cloud my peaceful moment and I have to willfully shut them out. This is not a time for work. This is a sacred moment of quiet to meditate on what it means to live this life--not the practical answers for living it.
Just as I start to contemplate whether to continue reading a book I'm enjoying, write a journal entry or better yet, pray--it is Sunday morning after all--I hear the bedroom door open and my husband head for the kitchen to fix his mug of coffee. What has felt like five minutes has been over an hour I suddenly realize. I put aside my solitary tranquility, take another look at the changing colors of the sky and head down the hall to re-engage with my world.
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