Oh, the Mornings

 

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Every morning I sit here and maybe it’s tea or maybe it’s coffee beside me and always there is a dog and maybe one cat—I sit here with my fingers hovering above the keyboard and I pray that the moment they touch down that words will come spilling out into the open and they will be brilliant and life changing and that they will be everything. so, just a little bit of pressure to create something worth thinking about and the truth is that sometimes these morning writes clears the dust off of my creative self; it’s like picking my brain up, shaking her around and putting her back down, ready to start fresh. But some days, I like the brain fog and the slowness of waking up and of letting things that I feel rest with me so that the process of opening is slow and steady and it is like a flower blooming in slo-mo and eventually, is open, ready for the world to see her in all of her self. take a deep breath and pause a moment and look out the window at the trees and listen to the murmuring of saturday morning. Sigh. My words aren’t ready; there are plenty of them but right now they are floating around and I am cautious of plucking them from the sky too early and i’m cautious of sewing sentences together until it’s time.

Sigh.

So tell me about you—I’m tired of hearing myself think and I’m tired of my own words and all the me me me that I am in the depths of. what makes your heart race? Do you have a favorite sound? What does the ocean mean to you? Is there anything about you that you hide from the world and if so, what is it? If you close your eyes and move your body, does the unknowing of how you look drive you mad? Do you have a pile of books on your beside table and do you like coffee or tea and what is your favorite meal and how long do you chew for? If you were to live in the woods for a year, what would you take? And on island? What do you really think of tattoos and if you don’t have one do you secretly dream of having one and if you have one or two or three or more, do you secretly wonder what you would look like without them? Do you believe in god? Spirit? A force bigger than you? Do you believe in gurus? Do you believe in the wisdom your own heart carries? What is your favorite word and do you sometimes repeat words over and over again until they make no sense and do you take a strange pleasure in disorganizing thought?

Oh—and how slow do you like your mornings?

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4 thoughts on “Oh, the Mornings

  1. I too get tired of the deep draw that is plucking words that are mememe… My heart races often and usually in two opposite directions at once; one being thrilled and the other lip biting, hand wringing nervousness. I’ve never thought of having a favourite sound before and now that I try I can’t even begin to imagine all the sounds—waves crashing would probably be up there. Which of course begins to answer what the ocean means to me—I was born with the Pacific roaring through my veins. It is holy. The ocean holds all the things I have yet to learn and cleanses me everytime I’m near her (which is true of most water for me). I am actually a small a timid quiet worrier hidden beneath the loud outgoing distracting bravado—I think my meeker self became a recluse sometime in adolescence to keep herself safe and the unknowing of how I look moving is slightly less offensive to me than the imagined version. There books stacked amongst pieces of paper with late night tumbled words and half recognizable scribbles and notes. There is water (always) ready to sip or gulp depending on my dreams that day. I like hot dark sweet coffee with a touch of creamy flavour but my tea must always be natural—no milk cream sugar or honey. My favourite meal is similar to my favourite sound—all I can imagine is everything I’ve ever eaten and can’t begin to pick just one (indecisiveness is a Piscean curse!), but I do like foods that are “homey”. The ones that feel like a purring cat has curled up in your lap. And I never chew long enough. If I were to live in the woods for a year, I would need foraging books beautiful quilts and pens with rich paper. And on an island a tent to hang in the trees snorkelling apparatus and a camera to record the stars and lushness. I REALLY think tattoos are beautiful (generally speaking—there are some exceptions), I may be biased as I have some (five) and want more—always more. I haven’t thought much about what I’d look like with a blank canvas again as my ink is all drawn where it isn’t on display very rarely. I believe in something. I have selected parts of different spiritual practices to create my own ideals for life. I try to follow my heart’s wisdom first and foremost, and second to that would be believing in nature—that is my chapel. I take communion in the open air and breathe in all the wildness. I ALWAYS get words stuck on repeat—skipping and rolling over and over like a small scratch in well loved vinyl. I find it almost like a meditation, these words that trigger and catch on my lips. But sometimes (on certain days) I’ll barely be letting go of a word and another is there begging to be spun about—then a third that bears repeating, and on those days it seems uncontrollable and not meditative at all. Almost tense trapped unable to control or stop and that disorganized thinking hinders my calm. #allthewordsaremyfavourite. I miss my slow mornings. The ones that languished in bed surrounded by furry sighs and yawns and stretches. I love my new mornings (and am working on breeding the slow morning into my Little’s heart), I don’t want to always be rushing him or myself. I want there to be time for him to stop and see and breathe.

  2. the third wave in a set, the biggest one that’s coming my way and I can’t paddle fast enough-a rolling aum and raindrops-it means freedom and fear and safety and salty tears-I hide the sad me that I left behind but who visits me now and then with her ragged carpet bags, unkempt hair and puffy eyes. I clean her up, comb her hair, put some makeup on and then introduce her to my friends as someone I used to know-the unknowing frees me, but the parts of me that need to know open my eyes too quickly so that I never drop too deeply into the unknowing, afraid I wouldn’t return- my room of books is now the baby’s room and is reduced to a sacred stack beside my bed. I have no time to read them, but their rich ink rises into the air like smoke from incense, bathing me in a knowledge I can’t touch but know-my one furbabe, my one furman, my pile of books and a hammock-same list but also a towel-they scare me and I envy them. I dream of having the courage and the freedom to wear one-I believe in the god that’s bigger than us and the god that’s in us and the most important part of this answer is the first two words: i believe-i believe in gurus to a fault because I want them to tell me the answer that only I have. I want them to give me the map that only I can draw-yes, but not enough. I doubt her even after all these years-I like the feel of “zing” and “fluff” on my tongue and my best writing was in the days when I didn’t have an audience and let my raw heart bleed onto the pages and broke every rule of grammar and society and i bathed in words day and night until they formed a scab over my heart-I like my coffee with words and sugar, a warm blanket and a cloud cover that melts away after 11, but when the baby is up at 6 and I’m out the door by 8, I drink that in instead and it warms my heart just the same.

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