At the Speed of Trust

5 am: I wake up, shake off the worries introduced by last night’s dreams. Shuffle into the kitchen, feed permakitten Grace, begin to make my coffee. Wash out a bowl rather than the French press. Put the tea kettle in the fridge and the carton of half and half on the stove. Correct my errors, wait for the water to boil. Pour it into the press before realizing I’ve forgotten to spoon in coffee grounds.

I have a fuckload to do on this day but already can see its headline: Girl Needs Coffee to Make Coffee. Oy oy.

All in good time, lady. All in good time. Except: The holidays mandate a schedule that’s very much not my own. Deadlines, deadlines, and did I mention deadlines? It’s all so unfestive, really, with a nasty undercurrent of forced togetherness that never jibes with my nervous system.

A dis-ease pounds at my center, as it always does when I lack sufficient time to collect myself. I flash on sentences I wish I’d not said, things I wish I had not done. A mouth I wish I’d kissed again. At this hour it’s all superliminal, not subliminal, and I’m glad I can laugh at the phrase I’ve coined, anyway. Is this the change I’ve finally offered myself? Yes. I’m still stumbling through the early darkness, not only of this morning but of my place in the world. But at least I’ve carved out this home for all those signs and sirens that drift through my days. Here I can arrange them in an order that is sweet to me.

I’ve been meditating on the beautiful fragility of free will–how it impacts intimacy in all forms; how it plays into a larger energy that winds through all of us, often in the form of desire. Which is to say: We can’t fight City Hall but we can choose how and when to enter it. When to leave it, too.

It all comes back to that phrase I am so grateful that Black Lives Matter has given us: “Move at the speed of trust.” Today, and every day, I shall try. Let’s all do.