...when it rises...

I'm an early riser. 

I go to bed late, wrestle with insomnia throughout the dark hours, and rise before the sun. And rise before the son. Nine out of ten mornings I'm wide-awake before the dulcet tones of my alarm seep through the stillness. And every morning I slowly and quietly extricate myself from the bed and tiptoe into the kitchen.

I have my ritual.

My five minutes of sitting with the French press (a long ago gift from the dearest of friends) and sitting with myself.

Quiet time, to daydream a little. To just be myself…unfettered. A few moments before all the responsibilities flood in and the day begins. 

And no matter what else the day may bring with it, no matter how I may be feeling, I never skip it. 

It's my ritual.

One act done solely for myself. Before spending the rest of the day focused on others.

Fresh-pressed coffee in hand, I'll rise up on tiptoes again to slink to the sofa in the livingroom and check back in on the world. 

A few emails here...news and weather there. Empty coffee cup. And then...

Sunrise. 

On the damp, cold, gray mornings that come all too frequently in winter-time there is no sunrise. Just a gradual lightening as though the darkness is being rinsed away. On those mornings I uncurl from my corner and get on with the business of waking, washing, feeding…

But then there are other mornings.

Mornings where a single glimmer of light breaks through the oppressive dark. Mornings where the horizon begins to glow as if suddenly outlined in a thin layer of gold. When the black gradually shrinks upward as navy, then blue pushes it out of the way. And seemingly out of nowhere the sky bursts into flame. A riot of red and orange and yellow, blindingly bright. And a sudden flash as the whole of the sun bursts up from the horizon. 

I will watch. 

I will watch from my curled-up corner of the sofa, empty mug forgotten-still in hand.

I will pause, breathless, in that moment...focused on taking it all in. 

And the silence in which I sit is suddenly no longer quiet. 

That burst of light touches off the wild cacophony of visual noise...the mess on the coffee table, the toys on the floor, the leftovers of yesterday's busy-ness. 

 The silence is over. 

I'll rise then.

Swiftly.

Mug in sink.

Breakfast clatter.

Shower on and child in.

Clothes laid out.

Lunch packed.

Morning routine. The day goes on. 

But forget that for a moment. 

Go back to that moment before silence broke.

That moment when the heavens looked like Heaven.

I sit there and squint. My eyes straining to look past all the branches… the woods are in my way. I want an unobstructed view. Want to stand outside at some high point where the world drops away beneath my feet and I can watch…really watch… as the sun rises over the horizon. I want to see the beauty with none of the foreground. None of the clutter. I want to watch the day come in and unfold, without having to peer through what's in my way.

And wouldn't that be nice? 

Wouldn't it be lovely to be able to see all the good that's on its way without having to filter one's way through the muck and mire.

To see the beauty, unobstructed. 

And I wonder if that's the point.

Having to squint and look past the tree branches creates in me a sense of craving for more of that beautiful sunrise.

Having to fight an uphill battle makes me thirsty for those moments of pure and perfect joy.

Pushing through hours of intensive therapies refines my ability to appreciate those moments of growth within my son. 

It's bright, and it's beautiful.

It happens regularly.

But it is fleeting.

The sunrise breaks through and I bask in its glory.

And then the day goes on.

What a strange thing it is to suddenly realize that I crave the struggle because I know the sun will rise.

The son will rise.

...just words...

I feel as though the worst part of any routine comes with trying to pick it back up again, once you've let it drop. I can't even begin to count the number of times that I have wanted to write something on this blank page...and then talked myself out of it.  I am, after all, a master of insecure self-talk...so it should come as no surprise that as often as I think of writing, I also think 'I've nothing worth saying that anyone wants to read'. 

So I've kept to myself and let the routine lag.  Instead of blogging, I've spent fall and winter curled up with pen and paper whenever the mood hits and the mind quiets.  These many months that have gone by have been filled with scribblings in a notebook instead of ramblings on the blog.  Because you see, whether it's good or bad or not worth the time it takes to read, I still feel the urge to write it out.  

Write it out.

I quite like the way that expression sounds. 

Write it out. Right it out.  

And maybe that's why I do it. Maybe the writing is the righting.  My chosen way of making sense of things.  Of coming to terms with the cards I'm dealt. Of accepting challenges. Of understanding defeat.  Of learning from my mistakes and shifting a bit so as not to repeat the pattern. 

It's as though any moments of wisdom are too ephemeral unless taken out of the mind and put on paper.  As though lead and ink give them substance...give them life.  In a world where information travels faster than light and one is constantly barraged with additional or extraneous input, writing it out  gives thought an anchor. 

Likewise, memory.  So much information to compartmentalize. So many items on the to-do list.  So many irons in the fire…racing from one thing to the next without time to process.  Write it out.  Put words to the time and space.  A notation on the calendar, or a scribble on a piece of scrap paper.  A grouping of meaningful, well-thought-out words that trigger the remembrance.  

I want to remember.  Preferably, I want to remember but not have to experience again.

 I want to be able to read through the previous chapters of my own unfinished story with the generosity and sympathy for that under-construction-girl-I-was, that comes with age or distance or experience.  That ability to look at past mistakes and feel instead of shame, understanding of how very easy it is to trip and fall.  I want to be reminded of where I was. Of how far I've come.  Of how those choices were right in their time and space but maybe wrong within the bigger picture.  Of why sometimes they weren't choices at all, but inevitable and unavoidable steps.   I want to be reminded that no matter how much I change, I equally stay the same.  That I can make better choices but the previous ones formed part of me.  That I can, at any given moment, be both the woman I am today and the girl I was then.  That the voice of each age I've been still resides within me.   I want to be kinder and gentler to the girl that I was, then I was with myself when I was she.  And I want the previous words that I've written to serve as a reminder to be gentler to myself in the here and now.

So I right it out by writing it out.

I've never been quite sure of whether it's 'I write because' or 'because I write'.