Lately, I've not been setting my alarm at night.
Months, now into years of getting up in the dark... 5:30, 4:00, 4:45... all those self-disciplined I-can-do-this times... I've swept them off the schedule, like so many dust bunnies under the couch.
I've had to.
Illness came. And I couldn't seem to get well. So I had to sleep. And sleep. And sleep.
It was hard letting go of that early hour, but also... not.
I do miss the dark quiet.
But I love the soft light waking me. I love the feeling of my body coming back to motion on its own. I love inviting a shivering just-wakened small person under the warm covers for a morning snuggle.
I hold my five year old close and acknowledge reality... the smallness of my people is ending. The littles are no longer so little.
I inhale deep the smell of little boy hair as our youngest bends over a reading lesson. I trace the curve of a graceful ten year old cheek and receive a twinkling smile and kiss in return. I linger to massage the burgeoning shoulders of our teen, strengthened by hard physical work, now bowed over ancient books as his mind grapples with great thoughts.
Racing and rushing leaves no time to be present. But the present has wings. It is fleeing.
Time is not my friend. I can not measure it, don't know how to gauge it, and am often late because of it. My mind wants to float in a timeless world, but I live in a time-chained world. I have tried to bow to time. It would be unfair to those I love not to. I've tried to watch the clock.
But these days, as I seek to get well, I loose the chains on the morning clock, and float out into a timeless world of streaming sun and little boy dream-spinning. I hold him close as he tells me his plans. Legos, mostly. Lego plans.
My plan, if I could spin
my dreams, would be to stay there forever with him.
The two of us, just small and together and resting.
