This morning I crawled out of bed, my eyes still crusty with sleep but my heart aflame. Said goodbye and safe travels to a guy whose role in my life is to be determined as you’ll see below. We’d fallen asleep last night next to one another recognizing our blessings and thanksgivings, a squeamish activity for me primarily in the outward sharing with someone who, yes, I’m thankful for, but who has little context with which to pair my words and sincerity. Still, we slept soundly.
And yet it was this morning, while making coffee and eating pieces of baguette with creamy cheeses and grapes, while lighting a cozy fire in my living room, while scrolling through an ipod for the music to fit my time, place, and manner, while sitting on my couch with a fantastic book that this particular realization sprouted: this is exactly what I’ve always dreamed of, wanted, desired, and worked for. Today, this morning. Cozy solitude, the perfect morning for me to glide through the rest of the day. The ideal morning to open up my mind and body and spirit. What I want every morning to be. What I’ve wanted every morning to be since I was six years old: warm, halfway between absorbed and reflective, quiet but for the sounds of typing, a melancholy saxophone, hissing fire, and the slight puff of a chilling draft from the windows. Dressed in an oversized gingham pearl snap shirt. Comfortable in my otherwise bare skin. Wrapped together in nothing less than appreciation and true gratitude for the path I’ve taken to get here and for the moment of stark, blossoming epiphany.
Come what may for the rest of the day – I am content this morning.
And thankful for it as this peace has been too long in coming.
I didn’t think it possible. My eye steals away to the other end of the couch where I keep expecting to see him with each stolen glance, worn flannel pajama pants, a navy Smith College t-shirt, absorbed into the Times or a book of similar weight and magnitude, enjoying the quiet solitude with me. This is what he always wanted from me: quiet, steady comfort, yet always found a reason to disrupt it for the thrill of spontaneity. Until today, this morning, I thought it was my fault; believed I’d never achieve this.
Yet here it is, and I have the recipe now. I can create it whenever I want it, I know how. And I can’t express that particular relief.
Which brings me back to my current situation, complete with a man thankful for his freedom and who has unilaterally opened my eyes to see again: with the recipe for quiet, steady comfort emblazoned to knowledge and memory, it’s time to break out again, seek fertile experiences, a fresh (and refreshing) view of life at its molten core. I can always come back to this (says the optimistic and entitled American); it’s time to let all this go, every last drop, and start fresh elsewhere. I’ve previously promised myself Columbia as the next destination. Instead it may be Russia or Panama or Venezuela or Brazil – or a meandering wander through these countries and more. The dream of embracing that adventurous, Gypsy-minded streak running through my spirit has caught me as a red-handed romantic. I’ve been placid in my existence far too long, frustrated by an nameless yearning for something greater, a grain of redemption for my past misgivings and deeds. Where before I’ve turned a blind eye only to have the malfeasance and their wretched consequences seep and ooze through my dreamy subconscious as a monster we all know as guilt and contempt, today I am content, not only thankful for my past struggles to get where I am presently, not only for the blessing of all the skills, abilities, and experiences I present, but for the recognition that I have the freedom to choose my adventure, my freedom, my content and displeasure – and the single-handed aptitude not to passively be – but to actively do.