Morning Rythm

The capsule of the morning pulses through the afternoon and into evening.

It has been reading Patti Smith’s writing that has allowed me to feel completely secure in process. M Train where she “writes about nothing” is my north star. It doesn’t matter how the answers come, just that we are seeking.

I stand at my bathroom mirror. The counter is covered in tiny stains. The orange is my moisturizing oil I put on before bed. I use the dropper to place two drops on my forehead and each cheek. Even though I always place them last the drops from my right cheek drip down past my chin onto the counter. If I’m unlucky they fall and stain my shirt. I’ve learned to lean over. My skin glows after I massage the oil through my face and neck. I feel beautiful without any makeup on.

The rest of my morning is blurry with hands pulling fabrics. There are thick knits, light weight cottons and voile, blue and black denim, leather shoes, purses made of suede, and cold metals warmed my the heat of my skin. I love all the ways to reshape my body as I drape them against my skin.

Little ones enter and exit the cold tile of my bathroom. Her skin brushes mine. I wipe her tears and comb her hair. Our hands touch. We crunch our vitamins and clean our teeth. I postpone our embrace to witness her fingers extended in space. We twirl bursting into audible joy. I love to hear her say my name. I love to hear her say her name.

The capsule of the morning pulses through the afternoon and into evening. How is it possible for so many things to happen? How is it possible for each of them to feel just as slow? Just as important?

I have found a beat, a morningesque rhythm for the first part of the book. It reads, the reader understands what is happening. We have reached the middle. Now what?