These days I have to work hard to open my eyes in the morning. The alarm clock glows yellow, but the numbers appear so fuzzy, I can’t read the time. No matter, it’s definitely before 6am. My thoughts and feelings match my eyesight at that early hour, like I’m trying to view them through a fogged up window. I’m sure there must be some clarity, and a good deal of positivity possible, but the words are blurred, however much I squint at them.
These mornings, my temptation is to try and wrestle back some control. When too much is confusing and uncertain, I attempt to put fences around the few things I see clearly in front of me. More often than not, that’s my small children, who are painfully clear as they jolt my day into gear far earlier than I would like.
Last week, we escaped to the park early one morning while the London commuters were still piling onto the Tube in their pressed suits, because I was craving silence, and both their voices—one still just a babble or a cry; one newly and irrepressibly vocal—were echoing in my head as if I’d been partying hard the night before.
With my coffee in one hand, pushchair in the other, I tried to regain control: “THIS way, Kaya,” I called, first in lightbeat tones, quickly growing more exasperated. I wanted to keep to the paths with this awkward heavy double buggy, but my headstrong girl was veering off them.
“Kaya, come on! This way! The ducks are this way.”
She looked at me and shook her head emphatically, then turned and headed off across an unmown meadow of grass.
It’s the season I’m in, but most of my life lessons are being given by my children these days. This one I need to learn over and over, about unclenching those fists and seeing what life might have for me off the path. I’m over at She Loves Magazine again today and would love for you to join me there.