The night of the morning hours pulls me from the warmth of my covers.
It lifts my head from the scoop of my pillow.
I walk in the dark of the morning, holding my phone to shine a brief light,
So that my foot does not meet the side of the bed, but rather slips into the soft welcome of my slippers.
Into the kitchen, I make my way to turn on the most important gadget in the house:
The coffee pot. The good-morning-rumble it hums makes me happy.
I sit at a table that holds many stories.
If it could speak, what would it say? What memory would it decide to tell me?
Lifting my pen, I scribble some sleepy words about what the sky looks like
As dawn begins to settle in. About how I expect my day will unfold.
(Pause. Is that a baby’s cry? Or is it the cat reminding me that he exists? I know all too well that he does; yet he feels the need to say it over and over and over again.)
What should I read? What should I write? What should fill the space of my prayers?
There is an energy running through my veins that I cannot ‘pen’ down – no pun intended.
The sky looks gray and cold. The ground glistens with frost. I wonder if it will snow.
These quiet minutes are reminders that I exist in a world bigger than the one that exists within my mind.
The ordinary gift of stirring sugar into my coffee, to watch the milk swirl as the steam hovers over my favorite mug,
This gift of catching a few moments of peace in the lightening colors of the morning
This gift is what I miss when I let myself get in the way of myself.
This gift is what brings me inward so that I can live outward.
This gift is what is changing me. Every day.
And every day that I welcome it; every day I let it pull up a chair at my table; is a day that is well lived,
Even before it begins.