written by: Elaine Nadal
When the fan is on,
my bedroom becomes a seaside.
My worries are still.
I’m not afraid of touching a doorknob
or what I may find when I turn it.
I don’t chase windmills.
The night sky finds me
and beckons me to recognize its grandeur.
There’s room to breathe.
There’s room to believe it’ll get better.
The air clears the fog.
It’s not a beginning. It’s not an end.
It’s a state of being and becoming,
of not giving in, of not giving up.
But that’s hard to do when the morning comes,
and the fan is off. The new day isn’t so new.
The same apprehensions arise, and I want to rise,
so I keep a seashell on top of my night table as a reminder.
Every morning, I breathe into it
my troubles and dreams,
and they flow freely
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