Morning.

August 1, 2012 § 5 Comments

The morning felt new, cold to her bones.  How the cold got in there, past her skin and warm, flowing blood, she wasn’t sure. But in her bones it was.

She faced possibility, and that was the problem.  So in that moment, she decided, she would stay, unmoving.  If she sat still, she wasn’t moving forward or backward.  And there was nothing wrong with that.

Instead, she focused on her hands, her breathing, her coffee.  For awhile.

If you sit, you can’t do anything wrong.  No one can blame you.  You’re not hurting anything.  People can move around you and make their own mistakes.  You won’t help.  You won’t worsen, you won’t improve.  You just are.

You’re thinking deep thoughts, you know, but really it’s all fear.  Fear sitting you still, you know.

Mornings are the best and worst times of the day.  Hours ahead that need to be filled by productivity and accomplishment, two things that have not been on your list of strengths.  Why can’t we be measured by how much thinking we do and the taking in we experience?

Isn’t that worth something?

The calculating, the ruminating, the feeling?

Other people might not know it, but there is a lot of that done in a day. With every heartbeat.

Her mother was always telling her to “sit still,” so now she did.  All the time.  It was her resting state of being.  There could be no penalty for that.

You can’t do anything wrong if you’re not doing anything at all.

She knows she’s right.

Her coffee steams, but even that is a ticking clock.  It wanes.

“Be unafraid,” she hears.  From the flowers.  From her sturdy kitchen table.
From her heart.

“But it’s who I am,” she whispers back. Fear.  Her constant state.  “I was born with fear, like my feet or lips.  It just came as a part of me.”

“That’s not truth,” the sun says.  “It was born inside you, cultivated, but I did not make it within you,” she hears in the trees.

“It’s not my fault,” she protests and writhes.  But the steam is gone.  The coffee has gone cold.  Everything is leaving her.  She can’t hold on to it.  Soon, it will just be her and her idle hands.   “What do I do?” she resigns.

“Move,” replies the wind, “like I do.”

She watches.  It makes no timid motion.  It does not tentatively touch.  It moves through everything, around, over, under.  If you are with it, you feel it.

It finds you.  It seeks you out.  It threatens.  There is no second thought.  It is what it is.  It does what it came to do. With abandon.

It does not doubt.

It does not sit.

She is alone in the moment, in the morning.  Standing, she finds the wind, and follows.

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