Good Morning

Sleep-mussed hair. Coffee’s promising aroma: Today is a new day, full of possibilities.

The hour is early—not so early that it’s dark out or the kookas are giggling, but early enough that the parrots are still in their mode of urgent excitement, announcing the amazing fact of morning with shrill abandon, flapping from treetop to treetop, busy busy busy busy.

Ankles crossed. Pillow in my lap, propping up my tablet.

I bury myself in the news… gradually, with every headline, feeling the weight bear down on my neck like shovel-full after shovel-full of dirt… until, at length, I lift my gaze to the window again.

The light has changed. The gum leaves look greener somehow. The birds have calmed down a notch. Neighbours are beginning to start their cars and head off to work. I get up to make myself another cuppa.

I’m reminded of a poem by Rumi:

—

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened. Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

—

(Translation by Coleman Barks & John Moyne)

Yes, indeed. Let the beauty we love be what we do. I’m putting down my tablet now. I’ve decided that after breakfast, I’m going to play some flute. And ease into this day.