Morning comes. I stagger from my bed, feed and walk the dog, grab my cup of coffee, and sit at the dining room table to read. Despite my best intentions the words flow in one eye and out the other, leaving little imprint on my brain.
I load the dishwasher and start it running, then settle in my chair to meditate, and despite my best intentions my thoughts fly everywhere, winging their way from children to art to plays and performances and back again until a kingfisher flies into the glass window overhead with a loud thunk, then drops to the deck. I step outside to check on him, protect him from the stalking cat, but he shakes his striped head and flies away, scolding me as he goes.
Back in my chair, my thoughts are still consumed with unresolved issues; how to parent an angry child; what to say, what not to say; how to find a balance between what I think she needs and what she thinks she deserves. And then, slowly, the release comes; the tension in my hip loosens, I settle deeper in my chair and the music of the songbirds finds a gentle echo in my heart. Attuned to that celestial song, I rest in the light, breathing, softening, deepening until at last it's time to rise, to face and plan the day ahead. The dog barks, and the day begins.