It’s been gloomy in the mornings. I should be waking up to exercise, but I sleep in. I should be waking up to write morning pages, but I sleep in. I know I’m sleeping more than I need.
But it feels worth it, somehow, to wake up to the sound of rain against my window, to hear the cars of more responsible people swishing by, and then drift back to sleep.
The soft, grey morning light seems to implore, “Close your eyes. There will be plenty of troubles and obligations left for you later. But for now, close your eyes. Stay irresponsible for a season longer. Then we’ll worry about fighting the battle of what you want versus what’s expected of you. For now, drift away.”
And so I sleep in. So I don’t do my hair or make up. So I don’t exercise or trouble with any breakfast beyond a granola bar.
And so what? The cat curls up on my chest. I listen to the hum of the furnace, warming us in shifts. I treasure this quiet, this stillness before the day must begin. Before I must peel the comforter back and touch my bare feet to the cool wood floor.