Every Morning

Every morning:

it’s not every morning, sometimes the words don’t arrive as easily, my own focus just isn’t there to wait for them to come. Like now. It’s been a difficult few hours, so early too, and my routine has been altered past the point of inspiration. Someday’s I struggle with the world, waking and already lost.

but every morning I write.

nothing is forced, and if no words find me, nothing meaningful is written, then I’m absolutely fine with the emptiness of the page holding whatever it is I offer. I love the demonstration of a page’s capacity, always available, willing to simply be without mark for however long is needed, unbiased as to what I give.

what I find, every morning from first waking on — is that life is exactly like the page, there is always a willingness for the day to greet me as I am, right now, without bias to struggle or smile. I am completely and immediately accepted. Life is of equal capacity as the page, and whatever my present story involves is just as intimately and dearly held.

so what’s seen here is simply life, and only so — it’s not divided into compartments of writing and separate daily affairs. Just life. And when I wake it’s a morning found of this capacity, instantly, a recognition matched of my own open nature, a willingness to hold whatever the morning through entire day may offer. Every morning I am life expressed in varied ways, and just as much too I am capacity for all of its expressions, for each story now being told, and everything allowed with equal grace and care.

stories change,

but I wake as this same capacity

every morning.

~

Peace,
Eric