Five morning spaces

Where are you this morning?

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Dayton

It’s 7:30 a.m. and Stephen Fry’s voice is blasting from my Kia’s stereo system. It contorts and twists into the characters of Harry Potter. Dobby’s squeaky nervousness is currently center stage.

Ahead of me, an endless chain of red brake lights in the dark morning commute.

I’m sickened by the sense that it will never end. Not the traffic, but the work itself. Suddenly I’m in charge of something that has to come together every week, forever. And I’m the only editor on staff for this alt-weekly.

Each day I drift between panic and detachment while I sit at my desk, hair twirled around my finger, staring at my desktop. Above the screen there is a framed print of a tropical scene. On my window sill sits an optimistic orchid, poor thing.

But I’m not there yet. I’m in the car, which is finally heating up.

And so is the story line. Dobby is about to rescue these wizards from the Malfoy Manor.

Just then the CD skips and I slosh my coffee onto my lap trying to bang on the dashboard in a panic. One good *wham* and the disc is back on track. Let that be a lesson — never take away my shows.

Springfield

Built in bookshelves are an amenity that a 21 year old might not be equipped to embrace. A small nook of a shelf, yes. But an entire wall, floor to ceiling, nine feet wide?

I wake up and I see their bareness encircling the bedroom window like a sad halo. I have done my best to fill them with charming trinkets and old journals, but the majority of sections hold nothing but dust.

One piece of sentimental decor was a gift from a close friend. I’ll lose this item in another move or two. And in a few years, I’ll see him for the last time before we drift far apart. But right now, this fragile wooden boat with a wind up melody feels like one of the most sophisticated pieces I own. I exit my twin-size daybed softly, so as not to disturb my cat, and retrieve it from the shelf. A careful twist, and it sings to me.

Cincinnati

I start each day looking out the window. It sits above a coffee shop, and the smell of fresh grounds rises from below. It’s an all-together hopeful sort of scene. Coffee and espresso flow freely just feet away, endless cups of ambition waiting to be consumed.

In the space of morning, all seems possible. Nothing is late yet — not even me. I am the most leisurely boss, and the least effective.

Perhaps I reach over to my side table and pick up a book I’m reading. Wiggle down into the covers and open to my bookmark. Then I go out to the living room and do a dose of yoga in the sun. Because I’m learning to slow down.

But while my torso is hunched over an extended leg, I catch a glimpse of a monumental reminder to speed up: my red desk. It is the same cheap Ikea desk covered in fading Ikea paint that I’ve had since I moved out for college. This desk and my cat are the only two things to have truly witnessed the full spectrum of adult me. Trials and triumphs, late nights and early mornings, hundreds of cigarettes, gallons of coffee, panic attacks, movie nights, working, writing, and drawing.

Like my cat, the desk accepts me and welcomes me despite having seen me at my worst. And like my cat, the desk expects me to show up even when I’d rather hide from it under the covers.

My flexed foot loses its integrity while I steal another glance of my red desk. Truthfully, this desk doesn’t ask anything of me. It’s just basking in the morning light, enjoying its solitude. The fact that my obsession with productivity came to fruition at its throne is mere coincidence.

Still, its crimson figure reminds me to reach for my full potential, forcefully and urgently, so that I’m suddenly rushed away from a slow morning and into an anxious afternoon.

The scent of coffee is no longer a cozy ambience. When I stop downstairs for a mug, I’m on a mission, nothing more.

Laurelville

In the woods, I check the light, not the time. I judge its quality and quantity through the dirty green polyester of my two-person tent. I bought this tent ten years ago, selecting it by its yellow discount tag at the back wall of a Meijer. She’s a generous 6-by-6 feet. On this cold morning she’s packed wall-to-wall with sleeping bags and blankets.

They call it a two-person tent, but it actually accommodates beyond that headcount. Right now, for instance, there is at least one stink bug slogging around, despite my having scotch taped over a hole in the mesh window.

The light reads: morning. That vague conclusion is my only thought. I lay on my back, lookin’, listenin’, and feelin’. My hips are sore from sleeping on the ground, and I wiggle them around while my legs stay zipped up inside my sleeping back. The woods are quiet, and my partner sleeps next to me. I wonder if anyone else is up, and if in a moment I might join them for a simple cup of instant coffee.

Yellow Springs

Waking up alone, I feel blissfully, peacefully honest. Like when you finally clear your closet of the things you don’t wear. Or recognize, at last, that you don’t want to go to the party and decide to stay home.

My new room is dark in the rainy morning. Spring showers tap poetically on the awnings outside my windows, which look out onto the back yard. Before there were no awnings, just a naked view of the street and our driveway, always trying to make room for too many cars.

I turn on a lamp and nearly die of coziness as I stretch across my new bed. I’m aware that the rest of the house is tense with the change in dynamics. My roommate and my fresh ex are having very different mornings.

Sometimes caring for yourself means disappointing others. But there’s no denying the relief that comes when you finally pull a long-overdue trigger.

This morning, that relief overtakes me. I keep my new bedroom door shut all day, and lay in bed feeling free.