Early Morning Love Song

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This morning, I felt innocent and quiet upon waking and had I stayed in the safety of my lair, perhaps I could have saved the day as sacred.

This thing happens, every once and awhile and the older I get the less it happens, but it still happens so let’s not beat around the bush: a moment of comparison takes hold before I can catch the pattern of my thoughts; I spiral quickly and I am caught in an undertow that almost has no words.

The feeling of not being enough snags itself on this strange melancholy as I (always an outsider) observe the expression on the faces around me and determine that somehow other people are settled into their lives and know what’s going on while I am left with this smudged map, falling over my own two feet as I orient myself to the light of the moon.

That somehow, although I quest to be this thing of perfection (for a perfectionist I am and I can get lost in the idea that it matters what the outside looks like and so to have stuff and things that make me fancier and prettier and that keep me in the folds of what we understand in our society I secretly crave under my wildness), I will always be not-quite-pretty enough and not-quite-smart enough and not-quite enough.

The moments of craving are often accompanied by the kind of missing some-thing that also (almost) has no words and if I am able to remain in the moment, I can catch the essence of what has been gone so long it’s difficult to imagine it even existed in the first place.

As I sit here and tap in, the quiet of a saturday morning surrounds me and i realize that I miss the early mornings of my previous lives; the ones on visits home where I would awake too-early and patter downstairs to discover my mother who had been up for hours, so we’d settle into blankets and coffee and cigarettes and heart talk. The mornings in the hum of new york city, when I would leave earlier than I had to for work so I could walk and watch and feel the city come alive through the soles of my feet, my much-revered paper coffee cup in hand.

Oh! and the mornings that ask us to rise before the sun to catch a flight or travel across a city to teach a class and how I always hope to find a hidden pocket of time that slows everything down so we feel it.

I treat myself occasionally to coffee from the hip hotel-bar-restaurant on the corner of the street where I live and this morning the restaurant was quieter than usual. because it’s so hip, it draws a hip crowd and sometimes they border on the fancy, too and so my moment of feeling not-good-enough came from watching an older couple eating breakfast.

I started to wonder where they came from and what they’re talking about and how long they’ve been together; this last question always gridlocks me into wonder about long term love, the kind that survives all kinds of seas and storms, seems like a mysterious club that one needs to know a secret handshake to get into.

As i look closer, I can feel the dynamic between them, as well as within them and this is where I stop for it’s none of my business and this new way of understanding human energy is something that I need to be careful with.

Instead, I start to think about how I’d like to be able to eat everything and not worry about how my body will react and not worry about the animals that have been sacrificed for my food and not give a second thought to what is on my plate, other than feel gleeful that it is piled so high. in the eating, the slow-Saturday-morning-breakfast kind, I imagine endless amounts of coffee that won’t make them jittery and how when they are done, they won’t feel too-full.

And before I know it, I am back into myself; I could follow the train of thoughts that lead me into the shadows and I could spend all day feeling this almost-but-not-quite-enough but instead I know myself well enough to get back into bed, under my new bed sheets and simplicity of the life I’m rebuilding from the ground up.

I don’t need to be fancy or to be anyone else, for all I need is right here in the beating of four-legged (and one three-legged) hearts that surround me; the page is blank, much like the day—and in this early morning moment, full of hope.

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