Change

I have been waking up early these summer days, because our bedroom has no curtains. I would do something about this but I love lying awake in the predawn, surfacing gradually into an awareness I’m alive and more often than not comfortable. I scratch Charlie’s tummy and listen to Sam breathe while squinting at the bright red LED lights on our old-school digital clock. 4:44. Perfect.

Most mornings I luxuriate in feeling so grounded while imagining a more aligned life in a halcyon foreign nation filled with pacifists and fresh air. I don’t want to move a muscle but I ache for a gentler, kinder society.

But where would I get my morning coffee? And what if they don’t have oat milk creamer? Why am I so tethered to routine? Why do I crave righteous change most passionately while snug inside my comfortable rut?

It's paradoxical, I suppose, that a homebody and malcontent inhabit the same human container, but I welcome the itch, even as I refuse to scratch it. As I plod into the kitchen to push that familiar “brew” button on my coffeemaker, I know that my complacency gets its sweetness from my faith that it will pass.