I don’t usually wake up this early; I only went to sleep just a couple of hours ago. But it happens and there comes a time when laying in bed, tossing and turning, trying to get back to sleep becomes an exercise in futility. Actually, first it becomes an exercise in futility - then I realize it. When I stop fighting and go with whatever it is and let it take me wherever it wants to take me, I will benefit. I know this, but I’d rather be sleeping. This morning, it would appear, I will benefit whether I want to or not. This morning I get to contemplate... things, and stuff. This morning will not begin in the afternoon. This morning I will write and whatever it is that has me up at this solitary hour will show itself – it always does.
In recent weeks I have experienced and expressed some degree of frustration in my ability to communicate. That frustration is necessarily amplified because my art and my area of study both are communication – this is not only what I do, it is my area of expertise. Writing (specifically) is not just a gift, it is also a responsibility and although I have not exactly been shirking it, it is also true that I have not kept on top of it as I should, either. Indeed, I have put aside many dark mornings just like this one in favor of not answering the call. It is always easier to stay wrapped up in comfortable ignorance and a warm bed than it is to open up to the unknown, face the darkness and welcome the early morning light. This, again, I know.
It is forever a choice between stagnation and comfort, on the one hand, and growth and enlightenment on the other. It is, once again, a question of journeys and destinations. “Are we there yet?” The answer always has to be “no.” Ultimately, there is only one destination. It is final and I am in no hurry to get there. The journey, however, is another story entirely. So what about these moments of complacency? How does one overcome the comfort of the destination, however temporary it necessarily must be? When is it time to get back on the road again?
Maybe it happens when, no matter how dark, how silent or how solitary a morning might be, the light is still too bright, the noise is deafening and the muses will not leave me be. When the discomfort of comfort becomes too much to maintain, the journey must resume again. And so it is again this dark, silent and solitary morning that the muses have woken me with their siren song, taken me away from yesterday and thrust me into the now. The journey begins anew; the destination is too far to see. It has always been this way for me – how much comfort can I stand before the road beckons me back? I know only too well that if I get too comfortable for too long, I will reach my final destination before I am due.