Besides this odd tickle in my nose that is causing me to sneeze ferociously like my father before me, I am most definitely ready for Friday.
Early Friday mornings there’s this little, teeny, tiny space of time between waking up and getting ready for school that I’ve determined is the quietest moment of my week. Usually the entire family is up, and we’re scrambling to get out the door. But, Friday is different, I only have to worry about me. My husband and son stay at home together on Fridays, and, often, they’re sound asleep in their beds, catching up after a busy week. I’d typically be jealous, but this precious fragment of solitude is better than sleep.
How do I spend this splinter of stillness? Almost always in my fuzzy, soft bathrobe with a cup of hot coffee. I have found it hard to just sit with myself though, my default is to occupy my mind with news headlines or unfinished school work. I desperately crave this space, but doubt that I know how to be quiet with it.
Writing, like I am now, feels quiet. I can hear my thoughts, they’re slower and softer than usual. I imagine they’re not fighting to be heard over the millions of things I feel that I have to do each day. And, I’m not shooing them away because someone else is talking or asking for my attention.
It reminds me some how of the way the snow sometimes without a whisper falls to the ground.