A letter to the light in my bedroom
30 minute morning reflection
I’m grateful for another morning. Another day I get to open my eyes and see this light unapologetically breaking through my window and crashing down across my whiteboard, over the back tire of my bright orange bike, and into the alcove near the door to my bedroom.
If I lay in bed long enough I can watch the brightest areas slowly move from that alcove all the way across my room, finally landing on the Marshall amp that my neighbor Tommy left me before he passed away over 5 years ago.
I’ve loved watching this since I can remember. Even back in New Jersey, in the bedroom I grew up in, this morning light behaved the same way. It’s almost as if it’s followed me to Brooklyn.
I used to wake up smiling. Happy to lay there in the silence. Content with the fact that there was absolutely nothing happening in that moment. I was completely aware. Aware of my body, from my toes all the way up to the longest hair on my head. Aware of the humming sounds of the air conditioning unit right outside my window and the breeze it produced as it made its way through the maze of ducts running above me in the attic. Aware of the sound of the sheets moving as mom tossed and turned in my parent’s bedroom on the other side of my wall. Aware of the random cracking sounds the wood floors produced every now and then. Aware of the planes flying over head and the sound of trains going by just one town over.
I was completely there when I woke up as a kid. My mornings were mine and I shared them with all the sounds that my world made.
These days I’ve rarely been in my own head. I fly out of bed each morning, set to conquer all the tasks I have to accomplish. The ones I wrote down on a piece of paper that will make me the man I need to be, fulfilling some personal prophecy I’ve been trying to manifest whose origins I can’t even trace.
But not this morning. This morning I choose to sit and share 30 minutes with the sounds my world is making. I choose to stare at a patch of light bleeding onto my white wall. I choose to be aware and feel my body from my toes all the way up to the longest hair on my head. This morning I choose to be a kid again.
So thank you, morning light, for reminding me of where I used to wake up. And thank you for trying to take me back there every single morning, regardless of how many times I’ve ignored the things you’ve been silently showing me. Thank you for following me.
