Coughing myself awake at 4:00 am means I can remember my dream (or parts of it anyway), and in it, I’m young, early twenties, and I can really feel it, the carefree wildness. It’s so strange the way everything was a lifetime ago and also two minutes ago and we keep all the pieces stored up in our bodies, our brains. There I was, here I am. And here’s the toddler who’s delighted I’m awake at this this dark and early hour. Cheerios for her, coffee for me. PBS cartoons, my crutch. I was going to type, “now let’s see how much I can write before 6:00 am,” but I’m already pouring more Cheerios and then getting the cats’ brushes because now is a good time for us to sit on the rug and brush out Buddha’s mats, or knots, or as my daughter says, “Does Buddha have snots? I’m trying to get his snots out.” That one makes me laugh so hard, I can’t bring myself to correct her. Her pronunciation has become so clear, I already miss the days she would say “fwuh-guh” for squirrel. I repotted a spider plant clipping my sister gave me ages ago, and now it sits on the table, my new writing companion. It’s amazing, the energy of one small plant. I opened an old Word doc this morning in my early-morning haziness, something I’d written back in May during the Spring workshop. I’d abandoned it back then. It seemed disjointed. I’d let the writing flow without worrying about where it would end up. I don’t remember much of the feedback, except the suggestion it was probably two different pieces. Reading it this morning, I was surprised at how much clarity I found within it. I can see where I was trying to go. A good reminder that you have to put things aside for a good while and return with fresh eyes. It takes time.
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