A Passing Moment

I lay in bed in a half dream state, not quite asleep and not quite awake. I don't know where I am, or what's going on. Light filters in past the half opened curtains. I try to ignore it, hold on to that fleeting moment. But as soon as I focus on it it vanishes like a puff of smoke.

This is always the best part of my day. The rest of the day I may be working hard, strengthening, fighting with a body wanting to yield to entropy. But for right now I simply lie still, warm, comfortable, feeling peaceful in a way that never seems to translate to the rest of the day. My cat Hobbes sleeps stretched out near my ribs, belly to the sky. He is lost in comfortable bliss, an occasional leg twitch or snore the only proof that he still lives. All dignity lost, he lays with legs sprawled in every direction. In my mind he seems to have the right idea.

My tradition that has kept me from never getting up is when the thought "I don't want to [fill in the blank]..." I immediately have to do that. In such a morning state it's nearly impossible from thinking "I don't want to move." So of course I now have to move. Good in the objective sense, though it is hard to be objective in the morning. I have never been a morning person and simply thinking of getting up early is painful.

Before I move I take two seconds and soak in the last fleeting sensations before I give in to the rest of the day. This is the best part of the day and it will be gone, not to be repeated until the following morning.

And then the moment is gone and the rest of the day begins.