I needed some inspiration before writing this one.  The morning is a time of magic for me, and I wanted to make sure I wrote with a spirit that captured that perfectly. To me, my womb-soul is the part of me that is ancient and unchanged, true and constant.  The intention was to delete the request, nestled at the top of a Google doc, before publishing, but I think you guys might like to read it.  Here it is: 

Hey, womb soul.  We’re going to write now.  As long as you want.  As short as you want.  It’s going to flow and my fingers will be the vessel as I type on this keyboard.  Whatever needs to be shared I’m going to trust.  Trust that it’s meant to be read.  So, let’s make some magic right here and right now.  Thank you, my dear. 

The air around me glitters in the morning time. 

It didn’t use to.  A year ago, my feet would hit the ground at the last possible second; I relished in allowing my bed to cocoon me captive.  The dinging alarm would awake me sooner, but I would bargain and fudge the estimations it would take to ready myself for work. Ultimately, I would inevitably conclude that lying in bed just a little longer was the correct decision.  The sun would gently nudge at my eyelids, brightening, and promising of the day ahead.  And I’d tell it, not gently at all, to shut the fuck up.  

I’d roll over, debate snoozing my alarm, then decide to turn off the alarm completely.  After all, I had a back-up alarm set for precisely ten minutes before I needed to leave for work. With the inevitable ding of the final alarm, the ten minutes I had to get ready would always turn into fifteen, ensuring I was late to my job.  Practically pouring my coffee on the way out the door, I’d get in the car and speed down highways, cursing blue-haired drivers, and running red lights that I convinced myself were still yellow.  

For some reason, I never could find the correlation between the hectic morning and the hectic day.  Aggravation and bargaining of the time were the common frayed threads that tied a knot around an aggravated and rushed life. And, frankly, it was exhausting.  

Even though I maximized my time in bed, I rarely felt rested.  My body was never allowed to be but instead was full of adrenaline from the beginning of the morning to the end of the day.  Starting the day behind resulted in a rush of panic that constantly left me foggy-headed and stressed.  Caffeine was ingested to enhance my performance throughout the day; cigarettes and wine were designed to calm me down in the evening.  Externally, I looked for a “fix” for every task on my to-do list- even, “living.” 

Now, the air around me glitters in the morning time. 

I’m still tired, sometimes, when I wake up.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not rising to the day a Snow White in her forest, singing to woodland critters.  I also don’t frolic through my next sixteen hours a Pollyanna of eternal optimism in the face of pending frustrations.  

And yet, the air around me still glitters in the morning time. 

While I may not have woodland creatures, I have two cats.  They love to be fed right before I pour myself a cup of joe, and they blink the sleep out of their eyes the same time I do.  Puttering around my feet, they meow and purr to feel the hot mug I have in my hands.  Never ingesting the coffee, they like its scent: more than likely, a Pavlovian correlation between java bean and Friskies Tasty Treasures, but I digress.  

Writing is the next step in the morning.  Utilizing the chest at the foot of my bed as a desk, I criss-cross, applesauce my legs, and put pen to the paper first thing.  Beautifully self-involved, those morning musings are always about me.  What to do today? What is work going to entail? Dare I write a quick prayer for an easy day? Purging all my worries and concerns, I allow them to fill a space where they can stay.  After that, I can focus on the good stuff.  Usually, my morning-time thoughts follow some type of theme. Anxiety over relationships.  Fear of what is to come.  Desire to try something new.  I’m pretty gifted at fixation and my mind can compartmentalize itself in a ghastly way; this morning’s obsession, for example, was my stressed state. So, after choosing the morning theme, I heal myself from it. 

The air around me glitters in the morning time. 

A final sip of coffee and a “closed eye moment” (titled in such by my BodyMind life coach, Shana Hartman) lights me up inside.  Tension can still arise and the familiar rush of “what’s the time” bargaining can pop its ugly head.  And, yet, I know this investment pays off.  If I tell you I meditate every morning, please understand I am no expert here. I am no pro at silencing the thoughts in my head, but I am brilliant at discerning those that should pass by and those that can hold further inspection.  To the untrained eye, I’m not doing it “right.”  More often than not, there’s no stillness.  Frequently I am rocking back and forth, feeling the heels of my feet, even audibly groaning from releasing something deep down inside me.  And, ironically, getting it out fills me up.  While I am no pro of the art of meditation, I am brilliant when it comes to my mornings. Every time.  Whatever theme I determined was the road map for the morning is something I get close to.  When I wake up hating my anxiety, I meditate with my hands cupping my face.  Celebrating every time I can make my belly bigger and fill up more and more with an inhale.  Feeling the eventual upturn of my cheeks against my palms, and a slow, small smile that brims at my lips, I  exhale the concern that has tore at me for so many decades of my life.  Every morning is a new revelation or appreciation.  On the truly special mornings, my entire body will tingle.  Starting in the base of the spine, a vibration can move its entire way up and, on those days, holy hell, watch out.  Those are the days I’m fairly certain I will change the world, saying to the open air in front of me:  “Hey, wanna see what I can do?” 

The air around me glitters in the morning time. 

I am in no way living the perfect life nor claim to be a perfect individual.  I am very, very flawed, one hundred percent of the time.  And every day I pray to perfect just one more breath than I did the day before.  Honoring the morning and its beauty ensures, most of the time, I do.  

There are times that the day still feels draining.  Combining my introverted and empathic demeanor with a job that requires me to convince people of something half the day, and fix their problems the other half, takes a large toll.  But, the game-changer is this: I am starting the day at one hundred percent.  Before I speak to any one person, before I fix one problem, before I convince someone to do any one thing, I show up for myself.  I wrap myself in love and affirmation and observation.  Then, I go do the damn thing. Before, I was starting the day on an empty tank and begging myself to fly on fumes. 

Now, the air around me glitters in the morning time. 

I have not followed the same morning process the same way over this year.  When I first started, my journaling time was spent after meditation, rather than before.  When it was summer, I incorporated morning movement.  Sometimes I require myself to drink one full glass of water before coffee, sometimes I don’t.  Really the only constant has been a no-nonsense approach to only sipping out of cat-inspired or beautifully decorated coffee mugs.  The ritual is not in the steps but in the transfixion.  That glitter in the air?  It’s my magic that I release out of my pores every morning.  

Now, I wanna see what you can do. Friend, tell me about your morning routine.  Is it allowing you to show up for the day a version of your best you? Have you reached the Pollyanna/Snow White level that I have yet to achieve?  Tell me, tell me one small thing you could add to relish your wake-up time a bit more.  And let me know if you need advice on where to get these cat mugs I speak of.  The one below was purchased at Marshall’s for me by my very, very dear friend, Carrissa.