I make my way into the darkness of the morning – it’s 4:20 am. I have been writing and writing and writing.
In the darkness of the morning, I feel the aura of the unknown. I welcome its mystery. I reach for my trusty oh-so-classic, weighted-by-its years laptop. It sits on a pillow on my lap with blanket and cat bordering me.
Cat duties done. Coffee made. I am here with my blank palette to spout where I may.
What is this luscious landscape I’ve embraced?
I awaken to the force of this new day as I write my first thoughts.
In the darkness of the morning, there is possibility. There is newness – an untapped potential of whatever I wish.
I gaze at the blackness outside the window.
Back to writing –
Darkness triggers my mystic. It gives me permission to dive into the parts I treat sometimes as wickedly demonic. Just write. Let the words be my shelter on this page of a new day.
Again, I look toward the window and notice that the
dark is becoming gray-like.
Coffee is also in the middle ground – lukewarm yet still beckoning me to sip.
I feel my own wholeness in these moments. I am free of judgments and self-critic banter. The page is my partner to this momentary evolution – a discovery trek to acknowledge and articulate the composition of the inside layers of my divine self.
Time to stretch, meditate, make my daily call to my 94-year-old Mom. We chitchat and talk of nothingness. I treasure her acknowledgment of my voice. “Hello, Susie.”
The vibration of her voice nestles inside of me.
I hold the sounds of her lingering words ever so gently.
Heartthrobs. Hands to heart. Breathe into that feeling of pure mom love.
I know these calls will soon fade.
Just as I know
there will be a new day