Shedding Light

The Art of Reaching Out for Something Better

The phone now lives on the kitchen counter.
The light that slips through the seams of the curtains is what wakes me.
I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be fully awake without consuming.
Unfortunately—
it’s a lovely feeling.

Now I reach for a book, or a journal.
Or sometimes the bra I flung to the floor in the middle of the night,
because the cat sleeps on my chest,
warm and insistent,
like an electric blanket.

This is how it starts now—my life.
Not with urgency.
Not with noise.
But with noticing:
The small ache of morning in the body.
The weight of another living thing trusting me with its warmth.
The pause before thought rushes in to fill the room.

Reaching, I’m learning, is not always about wanting more.
Sometimes it’s about choosing what I get to touch first:
A furry companion.
A sentence.
A blank page.
A lover.

Whatever the light touches, I let myself see it—
as if it’s the first time,
because it is the first time
that day.

All of it becomes soft evidence that I am still here,
that the day has not yet made its demands.

Then I notice the light on me,
revealing what had been waiting
for my attention.

I reach for it without grasping.
Without scrolling.
Without disappearing from myself.

Just light.
Just breath.
Just living—softly.

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