I have a tendency to write and not publish. I have this foolish idea that each post should include at least one picture. (Really, I think that’s what all of the boy admirers out there want, to see the boys as they grow up.) The fact is I enjoy words more than pictures, so there are dozens of posts that get lost in my “drafts” folder. I flipped through a few drafts today and enjoyed feeling a bit of time that has passed.
FRENCH TOAST scribbled hastily over a grocery list written carefully in cursive.
Those were the words I left my husband with — an idea planted for the morning meal accompanied by a skillet of frozen strawberries as inspiration — as I walked out the door to drink my coffee in the meadow watching the sun rise, hoping to return to cheer and peace.
I will look back at these mornings and weep as I remember their richness: the sleepy eyes, the pajama hair, the greetings of innocent voices, the screams of hunger, the bodies thrown on the floor when the perfection of dreams is not met — when there is porridge instead of pancakes.
The early hours are so fragile: a time between two worlds, when the littlest amongst us require such careful ushering from one world to the next, the reality of morning perhaps more difficult for those who live partially in their dreams all day.
It is a time filled with hope, delicate hope, hope we can hold onto or exchange for despair. I’ve tried both; the latter is easier. Some days I hold onto hope. I smile and sooth; I keep moving through the morning thinking, thinking, thinking I am grateful for this gift of another day.
Perhaps these are the most important moments of our lives: when we choose to hold onto hope in the space between dreams and reality. (And we get to practice every single day.)
I will look back at FRENCH TOAST scribbled hastily over a grocery list written carefully in cursive and remember these mornings, these difficult mornings, as some of the best moments of my life.