I can always tell when I’m just about to fall asleep.
I get this tingling sensation throughout my entire body.
It’s not uncomfortable or scary, but it’s distinct and something that occurs for me only before sleep.
I love it, actually, because I know I’m about to drift away…and rest…
Her heart felt muted by the colorful beauty that surrounded her. It was hard for her to tell whether or not she, too, possessed such miraculous shades of joy and vibrancy or if her typical dream-world state of grey was saturating her waking self too.
She dreams in shades of grey.
She knows that life is a palate of colors and shades and offerings—and choices.
She chooses life.
Over and over again she chooses it, even when it’s distressing in its grief and sorrow and it’s heavy with a profound sense of meaning that no one seems to agree upon.
We spend—no, we waste—waking hours and minutes and years arguing about what God is and about the best way to govern a country and a family. We tell other people how we’ve done it and how our way is special, although we often neglect to properly convey our mistakes and imperfections when we share our recipes for a life of overwhelming success.
So she decided to share her foibles—her flaws, her quirks—the things that make her human and that maker her special.
She wakes up before the sun, in the middle of a dream. She’s not sure, but she thinks she dreamt in color—fiery, dynamic visions that her mind came up with while she slumbered.
She rolls to one side and plants her feet squarely on the cold, hard wood floor. She sits, slightly slumped at her shoulders, for several beats before pressing up to stand and walking lazily to the bathroom.
She looks in the mirror, at her still tired face.
Her eyebrows aren’t smoothed down and she has a tiny patch of dry skin near the corner of her mouth. Fine wisps of hair stick out at nearly invisible angles around her jagged part-line .
She gazes steadily into her blue-green-yellow eyes and sees something—a spark.
She gains momentum as she hurries to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee and some toast with almond butter and honey. She takes her simple breakfast into her bedroom, where her busy fingers take this spark and ignite her thoughts and dreams and hopes into words that she wants others to share with her—that she wants to share with you.
Because she has a feeling that it’s these tiny embers of raw, human blemishes that start fires that will change the world.
Photo: Eneas de Troya/Flickr.