Most Mornings of This World

Let me tell my truth. Most mornings of this world, I awaken and feel, first of all, the weight of existence. Weight like a burden more than a blessing. It aches to be conscious. I lie there and think, I need to go through this day. I think about it and decide that, yes, I will go through the day. Usually, this interior conversation is shrouded in sadness.

Once out of bed, the works are started, like an old clock winding up, and the day does what it does, and I land at the end of it very tired and still sad.

It took awhile to understand, to see, that this is in fact my response to any given day. It wasn't always like this, not at all. But for months it has been like this. Existence--something I am desperate to maintain but that feels so heavy, so difficult.

I was never a sleeper as a kid or teenager. Slept a few hours, then was ready to go do things. Much of the time they were interior sorts of things, such as reading or writing or just being outdoors. But there was this feeling of action, of being swept up in the world in a good way. That continued through college, overseas work, then a long career in publishing. Always being swept into the day, with things to do, words to write, places to be. The memories of these former seasons let me know that something has changed. The inner compass has shifted. Or, maybe it's not a compass at all, just a pointer jiggling incessantly as though distressed and distracted.

There it is. Nothing momentous or desperate. And thus far, I have no conclusions about it. An idea here and there--a hunch or two. But for now, wait, pay attention. Watch and ponder.