amarillo: earth

How do you wake up?

Is yours the kind of slow wrestle with the sheets, a small trail of denials from your first open eye to the opposite end of the bed where you are hiding? Do you insist each shift in weight will bring you those few more minutes? Just a few more minutes?

If so, what is your barter? What do you offer to the sunlight pouring in and pooling in bright zig zags on your covers? Do you give up the morning shower? The proper, sit down breakfast? Time to iron your clothes? Does the rest of your day, the grease in your hair and your wrinkled sleeves, speak to the few minutes more you begged for when you first woke?

Or maybe, do you wake up seamlessly? Does your last dream fall at your feet like silk? Do you step out of bed untouched by the night before? Does the sun rise in the east like you might be tethered together, your chest lifting as the sky brightens?

Or maybe, is it a spectacle? Are you part cartoon in the way you hold your anvil above your alarm? Is there no amount of noise that can bring you back to us?

The animal kingdom speaks to this, you know. Because there are two types of winter sleep. There is what we call hibernation, when the body is so immersed in its rest that no orchestra can rouse the creature.  And then there is torpor, for those of us who cannot lose control for too long, cannot find a dark safe enough to yield to. These are the states of winter sleep where, if we try hard enough, the bear will wake.

So which are you?

In the outstretched arm that is our daily living, are you the creature that surrenders easily? How strong is your muscle of letting go?

 

 

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