Bed head and morning breath can wait. Pillows and sheets can be tucked in later.
Is it Tuesday? Friday? Saturday afternoon? Are there chores to do and errands to run? People to meet and work to be done? What’s the weather like and will I need a coat or umbrella or scarf or hat?
No matter. It’s no matter at all.
Instead, I think about something to create today. A story, a sentence, a song. Things that go in frying pans and stock pots and cookie jars and cake stands. The word ‘limit’ hasn’t kicked in yet.
Instead, I think about all the wonderful things that might happen tomorrow, or 8 weeks from now, or when I’m 54. The word ‘cynicism’ hasn’t kicked in yet.
Instead, I think about how I can give today more than I take. I think about yesterday’s failures and last night’s regrets and try to forget. I think about hands to hold and words to whisper and shoulders to hug.
Push off the covers. Rub sleepy eyes. Stretch towards the sun. No more thinking, it’s time to put on my cape and go.