Yestermorn

Oh, how grey and misty the morning is.

When you don't sleep much, when the dog Insomnia has you in his teeth and he shakes you, shakes you, worries and gnaws at you, it doesn't matter when you go to bed - after a certain time, you wake.

You may try...in vain...to sleep again, but once the dog Insomnia has you in his teeth, your mind begins to whirl, to spin. Dreams are left half done, half remembered, half present, flitting in and out of the conscience, flecks of foam flying from the dog's jowls.

You will eventually give way to the inevitable and rise.

And oh...how grey and misty the morning is.

It is early...so early...too early. Your sleep fogged brain, your sleep deprived body, cry out for mercy from the wan light, from the hour. The dog Insomnia pays no heed, and shakes once more, so you dress, brush hair, brush teeth, slowly drag yourself down the hall to the living room, forgetting that you don't have to be quiet because the child isn't asleep in his bed, so easily disturbed from his slumber - he's away with Daddy and you are all but alone in the house on this grey and misty morning.

You don't want coffee or tea. You want sleep...blessed sleep...

You chance to look out the window and see the softened morning, hard edges gentled by the mist, and you know...you know you must go out into it, into the softness, breathe it, exhale your hardness into it, close your eyes and feel it surround you, explore your face with tentative fingers, brush your arm, your leg, like a lover touching with tender wonder, smoothing the roughness, replacing it with peace, with sweetness that flows through you like honeyed light.

Open your eyes, then, and see the world anew, shining, sparkling with this grey and misty morning.

You may chance to walk to the end of the drive, floating in this new-found serenity, this calm, this peace. You may listen to the stillness, the silence, the day muffled in the grey mist. You may wonder if you have been transported, in those few steps, to some other world.

Tip back your head, then, and look up into the indeterminate light, the light that is playful with your eyes, with your perception, dancing in puddles of itself, the light that takes the grey and makes a shawl of it, wrapping up in the mist, peeking coyly around its edges.

Do you see, in the tree?

Do you see her?

You are not alone in this new place, this other place, this grey and misty morning.

She is there, small, powerful, spinner of threads, weaver of webs, symbol of fate, totem of life, death, renewal.

She sits, quiet, as you watch her sitting, quiet. She knows you are not prey, not predator - rather, she sees you are dancing along your own web, spinning, weaving, creating a new Self of the old. She sits, quiet, seeing you find your way along your slender, shining strand through the grey and misty morning.

You walk out into the cul-de-sac and look toward the head of the street, expectant. Something is coming through the grey and misty morning. Something is coming...




Something...