Spring approaches not, as in years before, gradually and in sodden waves of snow melt and rains and mud, but suddenly this time, hot and dry, brightly lit. Since we’ve reached that moment in the year when we presume to shift time, when we fling ourselves forward an hour, mornings are darker. I wake to a half-moon still glowing in the sky, stars still winking out the night. In bed, my body tells me to turn over and slip back into sleep. My spirit feels unready to rise. I want to eke something more from the dark. Not sleep or rest exactly, since I have rolled and turned half the night, but something. There must be something here that I’ll find if I peel away the winter comforter that I no longer need, or if I kick off the cotton sheet. I’ve looked each night these last few weeks, and I find nothing but wakefulness.
Well, not that exactly. Call it more a restless energy. Something I cannot calm by trying to lie still. I feel more weary than tired. I spend too much energy trying to do nothing. Afraid of what? Failure, I suppose, to produce. The voice of that old grinding ogre inside telling me that, really, I have nothing to say that anyone in the world wants to hear, that all my ambitions–modest as they are–have been illusions.
But I have no time for this disquiet. Soon, within weeks now, my daughter will spring into this world. I have to cultivate enough of myself to be present for her. I have to construct a sufficient person in this aging shell of mine to nurture her. Day is coming earlier and earlier. It’s time for me to wake up.