I believe in the day.
As a child, the day was my constant companion. As I grew older, I came to understand the day as a complex idea of extraordinay beauty and superior intellegence. Though dependent on a spin and a rotation, it is more that a run of twenty-four hours. It has implied content that perhaps only a highly imaginative, hungry person can extract.
As each day begins, it tacitly communicates to me a promise. This promise doesn’t assure me that a particular thing is going to happen. Rather, the light of day spills across the landscape with the imprecise promise of potential. It is this potential that is the promise, another chance; sweet.
The promise though isn’t always sweet. When I was eighteen and stepped from the porch of my childhood home, my face was flush with the excitement of the advent of adulthood. Since then, there have been many inspiring blue-sky days. There have also been days when my future seemed little more thatn a handful of water slipping through my fingers. I have had days when the light on earth emanated from my smile.
I have begun days skipping along like a six year old, only to find my myself at its end stumbling, club footed, among the rubble of broken relationships and disillusionment.
Regardless of the weather in my life, I find the constancy of the day remarkable. It is a steadfast and resilient stimulus. It is born, grows in stature and transforms into, The Beatles’, Lucy in the sky with diamonds. This progression signals to me that physical, mental and emotional growth are integral to our development as human beings. It reaffirms my belief that the process is the destination. I may take a time-out, but eventually I must reengage. I find that carrying a crow bar is a very handy tool for prodding me along.
These ideas do not stem from a specific event or from a crisis. They evolved out of a lonely girlhood, out of my want for companionship. The day didn’t run away when I came out of the front door to play. It was always there. So I took an interest in my friend.
The stubby pencil that scribbles inside the walls of my heart will someday wear down. And though the significance of each day isn’t always appreciated in real time, as long as the pencil is moving, everyday (as the prayer goes) will be my daily bread.
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