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Life, actually…
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FIFTY WAYS TO SEIZE THE DAY
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Some mornings I grumble aloud, roll over, sit at the bed’s edge, creak upright, test my balance on the ancient hardwood floor, then proceed in a disorderly fashion to the bathroom.
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Is this how you start the day, too?
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There are other ways to face down the impending waking hours. As the weeks roll forth, these are some of those ways:
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Sunshine peeps past the bedroom’s slatted blinds and parted curtains. At least one ray zaps me into wakefulness. I lie face up, staring at the ceiling and its dangling fan. Something makes me smile—maybe a funny incident that happened yesterday. I grin and arise and wobble towards shower and shampoo and washcloth and comb.
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Another morning, birds chirp and get past my dream barriers and bring me to consciousness. I dare to raise one eyelid, testing whether this is slumber or reality. After some mulling I open the other eye and get on with the day, hoping for the best, bracing for whatever may come.
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See what I mean? There must be fifty ways to approach the days.
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I’m beginning to look forward to the next morning and the next. I see them as adventures to be lived, challenges to be faced or avoided, revelations that may diminish or expand the universe.
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This morning I lie awake wrangling a whole mess of thoughts and feelings that overlap and slither about. Past regrets, future fears, wolves slurping at the gates, confusions and contusions of everyday life—they all join paws and dance around me, mocking and encouraging and berating me and loving me all at once. This can only mean one thing. I gotta get out of this bed, shake them off, and sally forth to face my responsibilities and vices.
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So there.
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One more morning:
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I lie staring at the darkened ceiling. I extend my hand to see whether Liz is abed or about. She’s not here, so I listen for clues. Shifting floors, shower, hair dryer, distant zoom voices. When I finally triangulate her, I slip out of bed, gather laundry basket prospects, and head for another morning. A morning in which I will descend to the kitchen, wave to Liz as she zooms her meeting, search for the fluid of choice, stare mindlessly into the refrigerator for a never-present miracle meal, and gird my loins for whatever mysterious adventures lie ahead
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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed
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