The house was quiet at 6:30am...the most subtle wash of light beginning to creep in as I padded upstairs to make tea. I slip outside unnoticed and alone. Sitting on the front porch I heard the low moaning of a passing train. It's a sad sound that gypsy siren, metal on metal screeching through the rumbling reaching 1.5 miles down Old Embreeville road to my waking ears.
Crickets kept the rhythm as a mourning dove poured her heart out. The whole world seems to gently unfold in the early hours, noises becoming more intense along with the spreading light. Warm tea pushed back the morning damp and cool. I raised my mug in silent cheer to passing cars-fellow travelers- hoping they were driving to something they enjoy. Something nourishing to the spirit.
There was a fine mist rising up from the field across the street. As I sat and pondered my current state of being I wondered where the road map went. Adults seemed to know exactly what was right or wrong when I was a child. They seemed to have all the answers for everyone. I've chosen a life for which I was given no map. I'm facing changes I don't have a clue how to navigate and it's really ok. Sometimes I just want to be handed the directions though.
I look down at my scarred feet and silently thank them for carrying me so many places, thank them for bringing me to the place I am now.
The light slowly filled up the morning sky and began spilling into my windows, warm and welcome taking away the edge of a restless night. Suma got his breakfast early, my cat the color of sunsets. He greets the day with much less intellect; human=canned food, sunshine=nap, life. is. good.
I sit wrapped up in my thoughts about children growing up and art and how a morning unfolds with all it's promises. I realize that I write in my head, I search for better words and descriptions to help me clarify what swirls around in muddy ripples. Without sitting down to put words to paper (or computer) it doesn't make me a better writer. It does make me a more interesting thinker I suppose.
"Now I'm hunched over a typewriter I guess you call that paintin' in
a cave And there's a word I can't remember and a feeling I cannot escape"
Within those thoughts I recognize why I really write. I have to. Because it helps me think, it helps me understand myself, it helps me focus that muddy swirl. It doesn't matter if the words are worthy or if anyone else relates to them. They are for me and my journey. I need the words and the exercise of honing them. I need to pour out the words that tease and taunt me, that keep me from sleep. They must need me too because they are a constant.
"And now my ashtray's overflowing I'm still staring at a clean white page
Oh and morning's at my window she is sending me to bed again"
Memories of a different time and place, of a restaurant in Pensacola with pita bread and baba ganoush come rushing in. I hear the words spoken so often "today is a new day". Sunrise is renewal, rebirth, new beginnings. It is sunrise whenever we choose to start new, to give ourselves permission to be in this moment without the baggage of perceived failures or mistakes of the past.
Today IS a new day, with all it's potential for beauty. Maybe I can be more like my cat and simply enjoy that sliver of sunshine because it's there.
Another Travelin' Song
Well I'm changing all my strings
I'm gonna write another travelin' song
about all the billion highways and the cities at the break of dawn
I guess the best that I can do now is to pretend
that I've done nothing wrong
and to dream about a train that's gonna take me back
where I belong
Well now the ocean speaks and spits and I can hear it
from the interstate and I'm screamin' at my brother
on a cellphone he is far away
And I'm saying nothing in the past or future
ever will feel like today
until we're parking in an alley
just hoping that our shit is safe
So I go back and forth forever
All my thoughts they come in pairs
Oh I will, I won't, I doubt, I don't,
I'm not surprised but I never feel quite prepared
Now I'm hunched over a typewriter
I guess you call that paintin' in a cave
And there's a word I can't remember and a feeling
I cannot escape
And now my ashtray's overflowing
I'm still staring at a clean white page
Oh and morning's at my window
she is sending me to bed again
Well I dream the dark on the horizon
I dream the desert where the dead lay down
I dream a prostituted child touching an old man
in a fast food crown
Oh yeah, I dreamt this ship was sinkin'
there was people screaming all around
And I awoke to my alarm clock
it was a pop song it was playin' loud
So I will find my fears and face them
or I will cower like a dog
I will kick and scream or kneel and plead
I'll fight like hell to hide that I've given up