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My days are full. They begin with a moment when I break sleep and wisps of dreams dart away, chased by too many practical plans. It is not a slight thing to be allowed one more breath and another and another, to have toes that point a stretch and limber legs and a mind that snags a few of those dreams, while at the same time lines up all the practical plans.
It is not a slight thing to stand strong and step step step down the stairs to brew a cup of almost too thick black liquid. My taste buds stand at attention, absorbing the sweet coffee and transporting its bursts through my body. My fingers drum the side of the mug, while my attention is caught by the moon hanging in the inked sky, pricked with stars.
I am allowed this breath.
It's time to make the most of it. I begin each day, in scripture, in prayer, in my notebook.
I am allowed this breath. I will remain unhurried as the day spins me, tugs me, crashes against me. I fight the lies that say I'm a horrible friend, a no-good teacher, a ridiculous writer. I shield myself from thinking that sweet bite of pie is gong to tip the scales beyond repair and second guessing the conversation I had with my daughter.
It all boils down to this truth: I am allowed this breath, and I am determined to make the most of it.
And so I write.
And I document the moments.
I listen and hug and cook a meal.
I cling to the decision to live unhurried in a hurry-up world.
Because we change the world by making the most of each breath. In and out. Again and again.