It’s early, the silver blue of morning is still dusting my window frames and everything is new. My day. My list. My patience. I want to grab the morning by the hem of skirt and let her pull me along through the day with her fresh whisper of “Let’s go.” I am summoned.
But it’s the floor. The gravity. The moment I set my feet to the pounding routine and the knowing that I need to make ends meet again today. It’s the heavy footsteps of my own heart. I’m still wiping sleep from my eye, that foggy dew of dreams still clouding my vision, and I can already feel it being replaced with the have-tos, should-dos and must-dos.
We are a bit of a mess and I’m mess. I want to run after the dream that once captured me there, between the edge of night and the morning light, but all I know now is I’m tired and I haven’t even started.
It’s not that I can’t make things happen.
It’s not even that they’re not possible.
It’s that today, I’m not sure I want to, only because today feels like the biggest obstacle of all. Today feels so ordinary. So blithely insignificant that I have a hard time seeing that today is the today that could catapult us into the next.
I am two steps out of the silver and into the gray, and praying that at some point the earth turns just enough so my heavy step turns into a running leap and we’re off into the golden-hued skirt of morning again.
Beautiful dear future, you are eluding me and you are so close as a drop of honey in the cupboard but as far as the spring in a Northeast winter. Dear self, we are covered in blankets and cold and we have to find a way to run into the heat, even when it makes us feel like we are on fire. We have to stare into the dim horizon, even when it seems that the dream is a forgotten memory that hasn’t even happened yet.
She swings high on the swing and I see her laugh before she hits the tree and tumbles back down to the ground. Gravity. We are swinging high and then the earth reminds us we are still here and in an unspoken commitment with the rules that we live by. But the difference between her and I is that she gets back on.
The earth is real. Gravity is real. Mundane is oh so boring and plainly real. But the swing to the sky, with our feet in the blue is real too. And to the blue we swing. To it I climb. To Him I reach for tree tops and to grace I cling as the steady call from the deeps reminds me that someday we all end back to the earth. In the earth. But we’re steady on top of the earth and I am no more a slave to gravity than gravity is to me.
Dear morning, return, bring us back to the new. And grace of dawn. Bring us to the dewey-eyed love that nothing is ever so plain and simple that it it becomes less sacred. Let us fly toward that sky that calls to the deepest of them all, and we’ll live somewhere between earth and heaven on each and every ordinary day.
This was the result of a writing prompt through Story Sessions. “What is distracting you from your dream?”, 30 minutes and lots of free thought. I don’t know why things like this make me nervous, but they do. Free thought seems far less controlled and intentional.