I Gave Myself Permission

A chipped blue mug, hot tea, and quiet grace.

I gave myself permission to stay in the comfort of soft pillows and a blanket.

I woke at 4 a.m., smiling about a dream featuring an apple, a puppy, and a man.

The man rinsed the apple in a flowing stream, then sliced it with a small penknife and said, “This first slice is for you, pup.” The man and the pup sat on a weathered bench beneath a gnarled chestnut tree. While sharing the apple, they watched and listened as the stream’s water spiraled into eddies, and a riot of golden leaves fell upon it, following the voice of the stream.

Birdsong had already begun. A mild dawn breeze floated through my windows, carrying the scent of earth: trees, soil, and all manner of living things. This was too perfect to leave. But tea finally called to me, and I performed my modest morning ritual of lighting three candles.

I put the kettle on, and while it was working its way to a boil, I lit incense, then the candles: one in gratitude for a brand-new 24 hours, and one for freedom for all in pain and suffering. The third candle? Ah—that I might not hurry past another human heart today.

There was no need to check the weather. With the apartment windows flung open, I was living in it.

I sat with steaming tea in the old blue-chipped mug, watching dawn’s light overcome the darkness. Birdsong swelled, and slender slivers of early sunlight rested on the leaves.

A wind, no longer a mild breeze, stirred all the trees, and I believed the woodland and the birds in flight and song were easing me into my day.

It was only 5:00 or 5:30 a.m.

After making another cup of tea, I returned to my chair and watched the wind rustle half the leaves on one branch while the others stayed still. How? And, isn’t that a wonder? I sat without forming thoughts, without reviewing my ‘to-do’ list for the day, without checking in with my editor about my latest draft, or peeking at any messages.

No other sounds—yet—just watching the morning unfold.

When I finally sat down at the computer, I immediately walked away from the keyboard and the white screen.

Instead, I settled back into my chair, feeling the breeze on my face and arms. Birds were still singing—it was only 9 a.m.

I gave myself permission to take a nap after doing nothing.

But was it nothing?

I longed to tell someone about all of these things—so small, so ordinary.

And so I am.

I’m telling you.

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About the Art

Title: ‘A Chipped Blue Mug’
Copyright: 2001/Stonington, Maine
Artist: Lee Anne Morgan