Woke up after a short night of long unsettling dreams not exactly turned into a giant cockroach, but feeling heavy and low as if I were carrying the world’s exoskeleton on my back. Thoughts in quick succession, get up, no get up, turn over (did – didn’t help), no sleep, no read, so wallow in misery maybe. I wallowed for a while, got bored, got dressed, got myself outside into the sunlight. Walked, marvelling at the pigeons, wet grass, green dates hanging loose on palm branches like multiple little bollocks. My walk slowly straightened out, became more like a dance. Music from my pink ipod imposed an irresistible rhythm.
Looking around, I realised I wasn’t alone. People were already working there, polishing fancy night lights, wiping benches, picking up discarded plastic water bottles and chocolate wrappers. It seemed seamless somehow. Purposeful moves. Park getting tidier by the minute, ready for the next onslaught by unruly messy crowds. A fuzzy cloud of cheerful fatalism enveloped me – we all had a place in life, even if limited by impossibility. My overdraft, health anxieties, family feuds, work issues, unfinished writings, un-annotated readings, uncooked dinners – all folded into a ball of fluff. The universe shrunk and became a moment in time, in the lush garden, all of us toiling in our own way, some wondering, some not, but all alive, just this once.
Searching for a morning poem, found one by Milton, appropriately titled Song on May Morning:
Now the bright morning-star, Day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing;
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.