With so many colors it nearly broke my heart
It worked me over like a work of art
And I was part of all that
Mornings aren't easy for me. The pull of sleep, of dreams, of rest is so strong. The warmth of my bed, the coziness and safety of the nest of pillows and blankets I've built, the hazy light coming through the curtains -- I'm always looking for a way to make it last a little longer. It's not so much that I don't want to face the day, my job, my life. At least not anymore. It's more that there is something in that liminal space between sleeping and waking, between my internal dream life and the waking life of walking the world, that I want to hold on to. But I always pry myself out of bed, usually lured by the smell of fresh-brewed coffee wafting from the kitchen across the hall, and start my day. The best days are when I can start it gently, by wrapping in a blanket or robe and lingering over that first cup of coffee. Most days aren't like that, though. Instead, I've got to shake off the last vestiges of sleep, drink that first mug of dark roast, and get on with the business of getting on with life.
Even on the hardest mornings -- well, on all but the very hardest mornings, let's be honest here -- I stride into my day feeling, if not optimistic, at least ready for whatever the day sends my way. Usually by the time I'm out the door, I'm full-focused on the day ahead -- work, research, activism, recreation, whatever my full, busy life has in store.
I don't take a lot of time to look back, to reflect, to wonder what if.
I keep going forward -- because that's the only way to get where I'm going.
But there's a time at the end of the day, after I've taken the bus and the train home, and navigated the traffic from the train station, when the light turns golden then pink then pale, pale blue. A time when the shadows lengthen and the night begins creeping closer on little cat feet. Things are soft then, not soft like they are in the morning, but hazy and blurry around the edges.
It never lasts all that long -- I blink and the shadows have turned to indigo and the moon is shining.
In this time, this time-inbetween-times, in this blue hour, sometimes....sometimes I look back. Sometimes, in these few brief moments suspended in the space between day and night, in the liminal space between the work of the day and the dreams of the night, I wonder. I wonder what if. I wonder what might have been. Sometimes regret comes and gently puts her head on my knee.
It never lasts all that long -- a quick shake of my head brings me back to the present, to the life I chose, to the life I built, out of the ashes of what was.
Sometimes, in that blue hour, it's almost like I could reach out and touch the self I could have been, might have been.
If I could, what would I say? What would I do?
I like to think I'd touch her face gently. I'd tell her that she was strong. I'd tell her that she was more than he told her she was. I'd tell her she had choices.
I'd tell her that if she'd reach out in the fading lilac light, and if she believed, someone would take her hand and pull her through to the other side.
Now I'm sleeping fine
Sometimes the truth is like