Today, like Rumi says, I wake up empty and frightened. I don’t even know why, perhaps because the children’s coughing interrupted my sleep, or because I have not been mindful, these past days, of stepping outside in silence, of reaching deeply inside. And once I enter the day feeling quaky and constrained, small self would have me believe there is nothing to change that, any memory I have of expansiveness and peace is just that, something faint and musty that doesn’t belong in the present.
But then I open the shades and the soft brushing of snow shines up at me in sunlight and a beam of light falls warm upon my arm. And even though I am still indoors, even though I have not yet stepped out into the brisk morning and the cardinal’s calls, already I can feel a shifting inside me, a readiness to notice beauty around me, in the scent of the tea I will soon drink and the gentle click of a dog’s steps on the kitchen floor.
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don’t open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down the dulcimer.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
And, as I turn to make breakfasts and lunches and hurry through my day, I stop to take a deep inhalation of tea-scented air, and hug Golondrina’s warm body.