Tuesday, February 18, 2014

today, like a promise.

This morning, I woke up late and ate a cold egg. It was panfried and slippery. My brother brought me a book and I read it to him, him little and round on my lap. I tickled him until his body shook with laughter. If you don't know, that's almost the best sound in the world. It's second only to listening to the slow breathing of someone you love.

This afternoon was a rainfall. I made a cup of coffee. I read the newspaper. I read a book. I played piano. The room was silent and I kept the lights off. It's nice to only sit under what comes through windows. A softness.

Later, I went to a coffee shop. I had a cup of chai. It's my staple though the sugar gives me headaches. This is a language I practice. The hot paper cup under my fingers, comfort. The quiet bustle of people, connection. A silent phone, stillness. I sat at a long communal table by myself, steadiness. In my hands, a book I love. That is called being. Everything was a study in solitude. A song from one of my favorite films came on, and I thought, yes.

How do you describe these spaces? A falling into place. A gentle nudge or a remembrance. That is called release. These moments mark me with rings. I see holiness in their wake. I will not call them serendipitous, but sacred. My ragged edges are softened by these places. The book was set down. I mouthed the words to the music and cried silently next to strangers. Yes. And again, yes.

Tomorrow may be a yellow sharpness in my stomach. My today was a promise. Yes, as it comes. That is called surrender. Another word is thankful, though we've forgotten. I'm carrying it like a prayer.

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