I want to write. Really I do. I wake up with whole passages in my head. I have entire posts written in the middle of the night. But then the day starts and I end up with barely enough energy to do the needful: work, be present for my partners, friends and family, do the things that need to be done to facilitate our move, pack some boxes…live. And writing falls away into “I wish I had more time.” And yet I resist dragging myself out of bed any earlier than absolutely necessary. I really, really relish and appreciate that extra half hour after the alarm has gone off, and I’ve muddled through my dreams in my dream journal, I’ve sent morning greeting texts off and I am snuggled down in the comforter with the dog lodged behind my knees, holding my pee until I can’t bear it another moment. I don’t want to give that up.
My nesting partner leaves before dawn, kissing me goodbye and leaving the hall light on at my request, because the basement rooms we sleep in here let in so little light that if he didn’t, I’d never rouse. My alarm goes off half an hour later. If I could just rouse myself enough when he leaves, not to do anything crazy like exercise, but so that I arrived at my desk a half hour earlier, I could, theoretically, have time to write. It’s just so so hard to make myself move any earlier.
I got up early today. It’s a start.
