New Day

The sun comes up and we arise. Dreams from the night forgotten, the day not yet fully formed. This once-a-day opportunity to breathe in the wonderment of how we might enter our life once again—an opportunity I often zoom right past.

Since we’re hardwired to “go negative,” it’s way too easy to jump out of bed and start scanning for what might trip us up—will we be late, what if we don’t get the tasks done, do we really have time to exercise, and so on. This negativity bias is necessary; it helps us stay alive and maneuver the world. But with each new day there is also the chance to pause and soften a bit.

There is no way that is more correct than another to do this—we might linger over a cup of coffee, go for a short walk, take a few full breaths. It certainly doesn’t have to be anything spectacular. I’ve been reading a poem lately to start my day. While the poem is about the end of day, reading it before the zoominess takes hold will sometimes open me, even if just for a bit. 

I don't want to miss the fresh space of morning. May we all find ways to wake up to each new day. 

Early morning walk: Carlsbad Boulevard

Questions Before Dark, by Jeanne Lohmann

Day ends, and before sleep

when the sky dies down, consider

your altered state: has this day

changed you? Are the corners

sharper or rounded off? Did you

live with death? Make decisions

that quieted? Find one clear word

that fit? At the sun's midpoint

did you notice a pitch of absence,

bewilderment that invites

the possible? What did you learn 

from things you dropped and picked up

and dropped again? Did you set a straw

parallel to the river, let the flow

carry you downstream?

Words and the excitingness of pure being

Gertrude Stein says that the “excitingness of pure being” has withdrawn from words when they’re worn out. Maybe a poet's work is to use language in ways that revitalize it so that we can learn to see and hear again.

Fresh seeing: views from Cliffhanger

Last night I picked up takeout for dinner. The owner’s 4-year-old waited with me and spoke in the simple, direct language of children: My sister hurt her chin. Do you have a daddy? What’s your daddy's name? My dog sounds like this...ruff ruff. I didn’t know where her language would take us, but I wanted to go there. It was fresh to be with her in this way. I needed to lean in to follow the flow of words that were so clearly an expression of what was arising between us on-the-spot. There was nothing extra. Everything mattered. 

Thank you, child-poet whose name I do not know, for speaking the language of pure being.

Fragment at the Beginning of Something, by David Watts

My son brings me a stone and asks

which star it fell from. He is serious

and so I must be careful,

even though I know he will place it

among those things

that will leave him someday

and he will go on, gathering.

For this is one of those moments

that turns suddenly

toward you, opening as it turns,

as if for an instant we paused

on the edge of a heartbeat

and then pressed forward, conscious

of the fear that runs beside us

and how lovely it is to be with each other

in the long, resilient mornings.