When I Can

There is a certain pocket of morning when the words slip easily onto the page. I think I've missed it today, like the other days this week. I find I feel most compelled to write in the moments of early morning when I'm holding my baby in my arms. He sleeps on my half naked chest while the sun rises through our bedroom window, casting light and shadows across the walls.

Emotions swirl through me in the form of words I cannot write with my hands so full. Instead they circle in my head and seep out my ears and eyes into the morning sunlight before falling into the shadows where they rest.

It is in these moments I feel most connected to the Divine.

Now he's sleeping and my hands are free and it's late morning. I search and grasp for any lingering Divinity that might want to come back to me. I'm here, with my fingers on the keys and a white screen in front of me.

Nothing.

Maybe we think we can do certain things when we know we aren't able to. We tell ourselves we would do so much if only we could. But then when we actually can, suddenly we don't or won't or can't.

And so I am here, just trying something. Showing up to the page.

He's waking now. I didn't get enough time. I feel frustrated, but then I look at his face looking back at me. Now I really can't write, but I suppose I just wrote something. It's nothing significant or special, but it's something. And maybe that's enough.