Tuesday morning. There’s waiting, and there’s dreaming. And then the time comes to do. There’s sad news in my inbox, a 29-year old severely injured in a car accident. There’s a to-do list I wake to, reminding me I am enough, and chosen. A request from my almost-birthday girl for seaweed snacks from Trader Joe’s. Urgency to do the next thing, to spin wanting into motion like a quarter that will always land on heads or tails, and both are winners. There are homeless faces who have names and stories. A woman setting off on an adventure, a call to action, a call to love, a call to let go, and a call to live.
Tuesday morning, frost on glass, a turning that moves only forward, forward into fall, forward into boarding passes, forward into hello and finally. There’s a second cup of coffee and a hot shower and sink full of dishes, a bed to make. A time to wait patiently in line without checking my phone. There are three little pumpkins on the front steps. A calendar with too many blanks. A dream that begs for goodbye. And then, there are simply your eyes, and the lifetimes they speak, the safety they harbor, the things they have seen and the old man on the corner you made hot dogs for. There are old women climbing mountains and young women singing Journey and there are bodies that are not longer babies and there is thank you.
Tuesday morning is like this today, simple. There’s remember who you are, and how far you’ve come. Beginning at the beginning, not looping back and through and over and over. The garment has been sewn already, and you have worked hard enough. Wear it now, Just wear it. Drape it over your strong shoulders, invisible perhaps but not to the angels with their needles and thread, not to the one who sees you out of hiding. Call it a cape, call it a shawl, call it protection or prayer–the words don’t matter. There is room for two here. Come closer.