DIARY | MORNING | JULY 17

In that delirious time between wake and sleep, when dreams linger in the light, a little bird sang to me. He was at my window, cheerfully letting me know that, yes, the sun will rise again.

With heavy-lidded eyes, I dragged myself out of bed, turned on the coffee maker, and waited. The delicious aroma tested my patience, but that first sip was worth it. It always is.

I lit a candle and read my cards, a new ritual since my session with the psychic. That little bit of insight whispers to me all day, bringing clarity and an edge when I need it most.

My classic Rider-Waite deck feels powerful, and I wonder if it’s because I bought it in a metaphysical shop, those cards long steeped in mystic energy, in harmony with the great wonder that puzzles us all.

Had to be better than ordering it from Amazon.

***

The dogs didn’t stir when I left for a bike ride — I admire their indifference to anything before 8:00 a.m. They’d be ready for action by the time I returned.

Heat licked my skin as I pedaled through downtown  — the shuttered stores still sleepy and languid. Cars skidded to a halt as a keening ambulance ran a red light, the only thing hurried in a college town.

As I wheeled into the park, the cool shade welcomed me, and I rode by the river, still slow and sludgy from the recent rain. Tall trees arched like a cathedral, discarded liquor bottles and bloodstained clothes littered the trail, the daytime exposing the tattered remnants of night’s violence and regret.

When I returned, the dogs greeted me in their ecstatic way, now ready for breakfast, but the house felt vacant, missing the one thing that couldn’t be there.

I played some music to keep me company. The Beach Boys’ harmonies swelled like a mighty wave.  A fever dream of surf and sunshine, of love and hope, of madness, heartbreak, and despair.

Cracking open my laptop, I sighed and went to work.