Four

Four.  It is the number of songs I hear on the radio on my drive between home and work.  A four-tune commute is a good commute.  I need this mornings music to ease me into the day, to carry me from sleep to being fully alert.  At night my spirit roams a world in which anything is possible: aliens and apocalypses to pet zebras and the power of zeros.

This morning, in between the songs, I remember a recent dream.  The sky of my dream is filled with alien spacecraft.  Life as I knew it is over.  Looking up I am stunned by the exquisite beauty of the new alien overlords’ space craft.  There is a symetry, a beautiful and soothing pattern on the underbelly of each ship.  They float above me, beautifully, gently, like man-o-war jelly fish or perfect up-side-down sand dollars.

My dream self thinks, “This might not be a bad thing.  It might be better than it was.”

In my dream, I am locked in time staring  toward heaven in awe of what floats above and what they might bring to the world.

In between songs and the swish of the wiper blades, I ponder a world aided by benevolent aliens who help us fix earthly problems. What if something outside and above ourselves reminded us that we are better than we seem?  What if it reflected back to us a better nature, a nature bright and beautiful with a divine symmetry that holds each of us within it?

I park the car and struggle to open the door and my umbrella while carrying a bag.  Lists of missing assignment capture my attention.  I get busy promoting the opportunity to utilize class time to a small group of the chronically bored and passively aggressive.  I lose sight of the beautiful alien spacecraft dream.  The memory becomes vague and fuzzier but warmer and softer than before.

Period three.  The days progress is highly questionable.  Too many assignments remain unfinished.  Minds and wills fail to be engaged. . . mine chief among them.   The room is warm.  I relax into it and escape into the comfort of words in between that which does not engage.  Sleep teases me.  Beautiful alien ships float in my mind.  I gaze up at them.

Slowly, I begin to hear a sleepy sound like a soft snore.  I think it might be coming from me.  I’m being abducted by aliens and do not resist.  A sleepy smile ripples across my face.  The bell rings to end the period.  I’m going home.

Along the way, I hear four songs on the radio.  The music tethers me to the mother ship with invisible silken strands  I’m going home.

 

 

 

 

I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.

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The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life (Before 8AM)
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