A Blank Page

June 26, 2009


I think morning must be my favourite time of day. For a moment after I wake up it feels like the new day is a blank page waiting to be filled and it’s up to me how I’m going to fill it. Some days I write a poem or fill the page with my dreams. On other days I scribble with a trembling pen, leave the page blank or don’t bother to open the book at all.

On an ideal morning I wake up at 6 or 6:30. I make a short espresso adding to that a dollop of frothed soy, then grab my small cup and head upstairs to my room. I suppose you could call it an office but I tend to think of it more as my space. It’s that place in the house where I can spend time on my own. As much as I love this time of day, it takes me a little while to want to share it. So, sitting at my desk while the sun streams through my window, the air filled with calm and the birds’ chirp playing in the background can be music to my ears.

Not every day fits this blissful description to be sure.

But this morning does. It’s almost 9 now. My coffee cup has been washed and put away and the sun’s 6:30 dance across my desk has waltzed on. But the birds are still singing and I’m still gazing out my window trying to figure out how to fill the page.


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