Slow Days
There were days, and in the not too distant past, when I was up in the morning and moving fast. At home, on the road, wherever I was, the alarm rang and the day started. It was time to get up and write, or get up and go to work, or just get up and go. A day was afoot and it shouldn’t be wasted. There were words to find or roads to drive or things to get done around the house. I was a going and doing machine. The world was a set of class five rapids and I was good with the paddle.
Nowadays, the alarm still sounds, but often as not I turn it off and simply lie there wrapped in the warm blankets sloshing around in the still waters of my bed, my hand draped languidly over the side trying to decide how fast I should move into the day. I still write and I still do and I still go, but the clock is no longer the driver it once was, and often as not I am slow to rise and even slower to move. And it feels natural and relatively normal.
Of course, the bright, high energy days still call to me, but I think it would be a fool's errand at this point to try and recapture that magic, if it was even magic at all. Of course, it brought me the rewards I now enjoy, but at what cost? Maybe none. And maybe it’s not worth the worry. Here I am in the slow days, and maybe one day I’ll even turn off the alarm and let time become someone else’s worry. I’ll just sync up with the earth and its daily spin as it journeys around the sun. I’ll sleep when it’s dark, wake when it’s light, and breathe slow until my time is done.