Early Morning Storms
Dear Friend,
The alarm is set for three-thirty in the morning, but I wake ten minutes before it. The rain is smattering against our bedroom window; through the edges of the blinds, I can see the drops streaking into silver strokes in the cold white aura of the streetlamp outside. The one with the CCTV camera attached.
London is one of the most heavily watched cities on the planet.
Chiara is up and in the shower as I throw off the covers, pull on my clothes, and put on a pot of coffee. She’s heading to the airport to catch an early flight to Palermo. She’ll stay over, then head on to Messina for a film festival where her short film has been nominated for an award.
The rain comes in at forty-five degrees as we drive to the pickup place for the bus to the airport. The roads are almost empty. A car ahead runs a red light at the roadworks. Why wait when there’s no one else around?
At the bus stop, a couple of lorries race one another through a red light. I can’t help but wonder how many times someone can do that without incident.
The coach arrives, and the driver is self-deprecating and very sweet. Chiara and two other passengers board, and I stand in the dark, waving as the coach drives off into the concrete distance.
A young man is asleep in a doorway by the tube station. Others are buried under layers of dirty coverings, sheltering by the bus terminal.
A family is sheltering in a bus stop, waiting for a transport connection.
We look at each other, but there’s nothing to do.
For the people sleeping outside and the family waiting. Just noticing and wishing them well.
I get in the car and drive back home through the storm. As I pull up at the house, the rain stops. I decide to make the most of the early morning and meditate for half an hour before returning to bed for a few more hours of sleep.
After a shower and more hot coffee and breakfast, I pop next door to hang out with the neighbors' cats. I take my laptop and work from their kitchen until it becomes obvious that the cats have found more interesting things to do than hang around me, and I take a lunch break.
There’s a new rhythm forming, and my days are becoming increasingly full of activity.
It’s important to make time to engage with stillness.
The rush to the next moment is a trap.
When we fall for it, we’re never quite home, never quite here. It’s the rush of the mind.
The commodification of time introduces scarcity, and scarcity promotes worry and fear.
Reclaiming the moment can be as simple as sitting for the time it takes to drink a cup of tea: watching and listening to the rain. Feeling into one breath and the warmth of the cup between your palms. The weight of your body in the chair. The texture of the tabletop.
Just here, now.
It’s almost a radical act to reclaim the moment as your own.
The pull of more can be so strong.
Especially as we move into the holiday season.
Which, for many, isn’t a holiday at all.
Take back time.
Even a few moments.
Developing the habit plants seeds.
For a garden.
You take with you.
Wherever.
Till tomorrow,
Love,
Mikey