In the hovering nothingness before time restarts, I find hope. Every morning, when the potential of the day hasn’t been demolished by the facts of the world, there is the pause. I love that gap of dullness when my crepuscular consciousness is a stepping stone to full awareness and my dim surroundings muffle the truth.
These days, I find that time is a bit like the gasping moment before the tires slip free of the ice and traction becomes a graceful glide with no predictable end.
If I’m lucky, I can hold the larger world at bay for a while. I focus on the purring motors that start up with my own stirring and the stretchy canine yawns. There is no slow dawning for the furry people who delight in my awakening.
Before there are papers to grade, my own writing to tackle, and a drive to feed the cat temporarily in my care, there is the clinking of food dishes, the howl of the hungry, and the thundering rumble of the kettle. There is a graying moment with hot coffee, warm furred bodies pressed against me, and a few words in my book: (“The men in the bar appraised her automatically, like tired dogs who knew they should terrorize a cat in their yard.”)!!!
On the icy back deck, chill seeping in wool slippers, camera in hand, I try to capture the je ne sais quoi that lifts my heart, once more, into improbable hope.