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.
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| 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?
