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Quietly get up and leave.
Quiet so as not to wake.
I sit down on the floor to untie my shoes.
Slip on. Re-tie. A five year old again, trying to tie my shoes in the dark.
Check for keys in my pocket.
"Stand up" I said.
Weighing more than I realized, I take another minute to myself.
"This is holy" I quietly repeat, trying to convince myself.
Eventually when it feels right, get up and walk towards the door.
The creaking dulled with every loud snore, opening that movable barrier a little wider.
Double check for keys once more.
Coat on.
Walk.
The 430 am sky is always the most silent and reassuring. Stopping at the usual spot where the lights are muted, I look up in between the trees and apartment buildings to breathe it in. Finally understanding the full weight of it all on that first inhale - I exhale with my head tilted towards those celestial bodies.
This.is.holy.
Time gives you a break to let you breathe. But soon enough that overwhelmed feeling comes swinging back to hit you in the chest and knock the wind out of you. A cycle that I am learning to work with, be grateful for.
from here (http://natataliegrace.tumblr.com/post/67890255811):
ReplyDeleteRalph Waldo Emerson once asked what we would do if the stars only came out once every thousand years. No one would sleep that night, of course. The world would create new religions overnight. We would be ecstatic, delirious, made rapturous by the glory of God. Instead, the stars come out every night and we watch television.
— Paul Hawkens