on quiet revolutions

Here it is, a quiet revolution of waking and pouring coffee. A humble meander into the morning and then remembering to fill a glass of water.  Washing my face becomes part of a ritual. There is, of course, a dog that has a his own morning routines that include surveying his tiny kingdom for trespassing squirrels. He is persistent. I try to catch the colors of the sky, but often those hues have already faded into blue.

I unroll the yoga mat in the space between the bed and dresser and tie back the curtain flooding this exact stretch of the floor with light.  If the arrangement of such a moment was not enough, I turn on Chopin, just louder than my yoga video will sound.  This space is filled with light and sound and movement. 

When did I know it was Chopin, I cannot recall the exact pinpoint in time, but I found myself opening to the Spotify screen again and again and it was always Chopin.  I stopped asking questions and playing others at random. He is often called the Piano Poet, so I suppose it makes sense. I feel his wordless poetry in my soul as breathe fills my body.

I am two months into this routine and miss it on the days when I get to sleep longer. On these days, my lover of mornings husband delivers hot coffee to my bedside table, which I must confess is still a tv dinner tray draped in a scarf. Let it be known that my diatribe on nightstands is long and superfluous.  But, those mornings are a gift too, when I am not the one needed and love is being poured out in pancakes and sizzling bacon.  One child has risen early to have an uninterrupted conversation with dad, who is a phenomenal listener and ready to hear words in the morning.  A smile spreads across my face as I catch these glimpses of how lucky we are and the extravagant love we receive.

Yet, when Monday morning shines through the window, I will return to this perfect composition of finding my way to a stronger body, standing taller, and connecting to the breath of each day.  

I think what the world needs is more quiet revolutions, the best kind of secrets we keep, these little gifts to ourselves. Some call it self-care or living your best life, but I think it's intentional moments of orchestrating the magic we need; not because life is drudgery, but because not all of life is magical. It is real and enduring and laborious. Life feels hard, because it is hard. It's also beautiful and magical and full of goodness. We do a disservice to ourselves, when we pretend that both are not true. 

A quiet revolution declares that because life is hard, we will also make it beautiful and allow that beauty to fill us with strength.

Catching glimpses of a changing sky. Gently moving about to water all the plants. Playing classical music throughout the house. Poetry books placed around the house for a brief pause to consider the existence of humanity.  Just to name a few.

The choruses of angels use up all of heaven.

   There's no more room for you

in all that glory. You're living in your very last house.

All creation holds its breath, listening within me, 

because to hear you, I keep silent.

- Rilke, L. 18, The Book of Hours.