The First Negotiation

The morning light licks the corners of my face, repeatedly, until I consent to opening my eyes. She makes her gradual way across the bed, nudging her most promising sign of hope unto the tossled ivory. The sun is far more gentle than any alarm clock I’ve ever fought, though no less insistent. In such radiant self-giving, how many times can I roll over?

So we strike a compromise: I will flip my pillow and “rest” my head, but promise to keep my eyes a flutter, little windows parted slightly for the streams of her still light. Sometimes I up the bargain, telling her that there is really no better way to receive her glory, no greater praise of her warmth, than to surrender consciousness upon her lap, just a little. She will often reply by shedding new light upon the floor, warming a most suggestive path out into the kitchen. My stomach grumbles.

Are you sure you don’t want to try freezing time again? I ask. You, me and the sheets, forever curled in our secret morning splendor. She only laughs at the mention of freezing anything. Anathema, I know. But always worth a try. I buy a few more minutes by reminding her of how important it is, for my health, to begin each day with a renewed sense of abundance and that her light pools such life within me. She is both prayer and blessing. I could drink this light all day, were it not for the hunger she replies. So I stretch once more, let me toes dangle in her sight and then drop down into puddles of grace.

Thus begins the day, in a semi-lucid, ridiculously affectionate set of negotiations between me and the light. And I can think of no better way to play human, than to bargain, very much like my grandfather, for regular installments of grace. Isn't that how we've always done it when waking to the tender reality of our bodies?