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.

Dark.

Sip coffee.

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.

Cat growls.

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

every day.