Awakening

Some days I awaken slowly. Stretching tip to toe and creaking and popping painfully. My mind wonders, "will today be any different? Will I drink a pot of coffee in cup after cup of cold forgotten-ness? Will I shuffle from one chore to the next debating over how badly it really needs doing? Will I look at my to do list with knots of anxiety, planning out how much longer I can make it before really having to go make that bank deposit/pick up milk?" Then I roll over and decide to get out of bed, decide to move, decide to see what happens.

Today I noticed the sun was shining and I didn't hear fat plops and whispers of rain, but the cheerful persistant call of birds. Today I stretched and creaked and popped my way downstairs to see my clean clean kitchen and shiny smooth floors, to see sunlight streaming through the pure white bow tied curtains at my window and the velvet scarlet of my rhododendrons outside. Today I poured my coffee and tasted the rich bitterness of it, hot and sweet in my mouth. Today I smelled the freshness of the morning when I fed my dog and we were both a little happier. Today I started laundry before I even drank my first cup of coffee and my day is already awake and going and I feel... unscared, unanxious, undark. I feel peaceful, reverent, easy and light. I feel the warmth of the sun on my back and it is good.

Today I will not worry about how long this peace will last, if it will carry me through the day or just until noon. Today I will not worry about tomorrow. Today I will not worry, but simply enjoy each moment that presents itself until that moment passes. And if the next moment brings back fear and anxiety, darkness or the sluggish immobility that comes with it, then I will accept that for what it is and wait for the next awakening.