In my closet, on my knees, with the door shut, praying amid piles of clothes.
On Tuesday mornings with rare, precious white space on the calendar, after my husband has left for work.
Anywhere, if I’ve left my iPhone behind.
In a warm Epsom salt bath, looking at my jar full of sand and seashells from Oceanside, while my family sleeps.
In my dad’s backyard on the old white swing, under wisteria vines.
In rain.
Perhaps I give my children too much freedom. But I can’t imagine a more authentic, enriching morning routine than the one they have created for themselves. Some mornings it’s handwork. Often it’s building. But almost always, it’s storyweaving.
No sooner than sleep is rubbed from their eyes, one of them whispers the magic words. “In the game...,” it begins, and off they go--down child-worn paths, through the hedgerows, and into their secret garden where anything can be. Though they do not know it, I guard this place, quietly, fiercely. But I cannot get too close. If I step on a twig, it vanishes.
Still, every so often I peek over the wall and hope to see, unseen.
It’s guilded in sun and starlight. It’s water and prisms, snakes and spells. It’s rescues and missions and clarion calls. It’s where time stops and passes together.
It’s where they sing.