Some mornings I wake up alert and sensitive to the beauty and wonder of a new day–ready to rejoice with the sunlight or to be quiet with the rain and cozily light a candle. There are the mornings with time to read and to think and to write–with thoughts that come readily and glimpses of insight that enliven. There are mornings with direction: a sense of tasks to be accomplished, works to form, and the creative energy to carry it out before moving on to daily chores.
And then there are the other mornings. The mornings of waking up from restless dreams generated from vague fears and worries. The mornings where, even with sunlight outside, tears rain. The mornings of prayers cried, and Psalms read in search of a like voice; of coming before my Father like a small discomforted child with the concerns that overshadow my small vantage point. The mornings where working on the writing begun on an earlier, internally sunlit day, seems a farce, and instead I turn to tracing over words in a quotation I’ve been hand lettering:
The real problem of the Christian life […] comes the very moment you wake up each morning. All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals. And the first job each morning is listening to that other voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in.
(C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity)