Trepidation

It's early in my house.  It's quiet.  

There are others still asleep.  I wonder what they dream about.  I worry about their nightmares.

Thoughts come freely to me at hours like this - sitting alone in this solace.  I ponder about things that are, and how they came to be.  I take a good look at myself and this life and put thought into it, and stir it all, brewing it in a big pot.  Is this....?  What is...?  How did it...?

I wonder about the thoughts of others as their feet hit ground this morning...and I wonder if I will ever hear them.  

The day lies before me.  A day of raw emotion and being very aware of how close to the brimming surface the emotion is; wanting recognition and the need to exhaust this trepidation - not with guilt, but endurance. 

 

Oh for my thoughts to be as quiet as the house at this hour would be a thing of gratitude; to be effortless in my will... 

"It is not what you think, this reaching across the generations. There is no effort of will, no fierce glare in the face of the sideways dance of everyday. There is only the quiet house each morning, filled with soft breathing while you hold your tea in the cool air & always that moment when your love spreads a cloth upon the table & invites the whole day in again."