Mornings

The walls in my bedroom are ivory.  A rather plain ivory but it ricochets sunlight from our window and captures shadows from the large oak trees behind our house.  In the morning, while my husband is still sleeping, I like to pull our fabric blinds all the way open, lie back down and be consumed by the light.  I watch the soft motion of the wind as it travels through the leaves to the rhythm of the chirping birds. The shadows two-step in the sunlight and sketch patterns on my body. 

 

My youngest son holding his scooter and looking out on a lake.

My hair, when loose, feels like spun cotton against my pillow.  I turn so it captures my face.  It's soft and it smells like coconut.  I like how it feels against my face.  It isn't long before I hear little bare feet smacking against the hardwood in the hallway.  Two sets. Opposite directions.  They swing open the door and jump into bed, my sons, snuggling against my husband and I, kicking blankets and talking about their dreams.  My little guy wants ice cream today.  My eldest wants to run through the sprinkler.  My husband opens one sleepy eye and asks if they're ready for breakfast.  They are.  They sprint from the bed making trips to the bathroom before bounding down the stairs to fill their bellies. 

For a brief moment, I lie still.  Captured in the shadows. Content.  Nothing more than me. 

Labeless.

Loved.

Warm. 

Full.

Alive.

 

 

Love and Light,

Faye