I am a custodian of a college residence hall, which means that interacting with people who have just awakened is part of my job description. It happens to be an aspect of my job that I particularly relish. Each day I witness multiple instances of the vulnerable process of waking. I see puffy, wrinkled, squinty faces, hair in all stages of Frankensteinian disarray, fashion statements that run the gamut from indecent to frumpy to outlandish. And like a beneficent fairy I flit among these poor shambling lead-footed figures, doling out clean white toilet paper rolls and gooey pink soap refills to smooth the road to consciousness.
They all survive it daily, that rude tumble from the charger to the cement floor of reality. Some of them even muster a smile for me. After all, I’m a survivor, too.
I am realizing, however, that more often than not my heart is content to remain dozing sweetly on that private charger somewhere deep within me. I permit it to stay there, where the woods are lovely, dark and deep.
Waking, even at the heart level, is offering your unwary, shabby, half-blinded self to frigid air and appraising eyes. Sleep offers a tantalizing if false defense from this violation.
Nonetheless, dear heart, arise and shine. Laugh at your unappealing reflection in the bathroom mirror. Assume the heavy mantle of your responsibilities. Travel the necessary miles with grace and goodwill.
No comments:
Post a Comment