• Dull Existence [In the Style of Annie Dillard]

My eyes pop open. The same alarm sound bounces off my pink duvet just like every day before this. I stumble to the shower, letting the water trickle down my face as if it could soften my skin and carve me into something new. Morning coffee brews in the same modern machine, the initialed coffee mug chipped around the G. Same coffee creamer. Same radio show. Same ritual of standing barefoot in my slippers in the grass, letting the dog rummage the same duplicate spot in the yard, scratching my arm as I wait patiently for a few reluctant dripples. It’s all the same. I click my keys, unlock my car, the same seat settings stretching my legs into position to transport me to the job I only remotely like. The seat warmers and Bluetooth streamed music are the only exciting things on this trip. Walking into work, Linda is there, curled into that same gray cushioned chair, answering phone calls in the same tired tone that echoes even after hours in my dreams. It’s all the same. Life folds into itself: mundane, colorless, tasteless, without precision or measure. Nothing feels exciting. Nothing lifts or skips the heart into a beat. Even the sun seems muted now, no longer blinding no matter how long I stare into its pitch-white glare. This is bound to happen at least once in every person’s life; the slow drift into repetition, into the tasteless broth of living. Even Solomon, in all his wisdom, recognized it: there is nothing new under the sun. But gratitude. This is the saving factor. The beauty of life is not in the grand ceremonies, not only in the weddings or the graduations, but in the dew that clings to the petal of every common flower. Staring at screens, at problems, at responsibilities, I let the warm touch of sunshine slip unnoticed across my skin, the crisp crunch beneath my boots forgotten. A new perspective is needed. A romanticization, if you will. If nothing around me can change, I must change. I rewind the morning in my mind. I trade the shrill alarm for the soft chorus of singing birds; predictable but honest. The shower scent becomes laced with gardenia and honeysuckle, lifting me into a forbidden garden. I let the water cascade over my face not as mere habit, but as a waterfall washing away the thick doubts and quiet fears. I run my hands along the hallway walls, feeling the texture of the paint: rough, solid, like the walls of a smoothed-out cave where I take shelter from invisible storms. I replace the chipped coffee cup with a handmade one, painted in blues and aquas that stirs memories of distant seas, and a mind lulled into peace. The coffee itself seems more robust. My taste buds rise, alert, catching the subtle tones of caramel hidden within the vanilla cream. My dog tugs at the leash. This time, I walk slower and more deliberately. The breeze curls around my face. I breathe it in, a peppermint flow of life flooding my lungs. I reach out to touch the roses lining the sidewalk, the dew still clinging to their flesh. Even the thorn tempts me; I let it pierce the skin. A thin thread of scarlet slides down my wrist, a reminder that I am alive, that my blood still rises red when kissed by the waiting air. Driving down the highway, I let whispered prayers slip from my lips, scattering them like seeds. Fears, regrets, joys, all of it drifting into God's listening heart. In this, His love touches even the dark corners inside me. His grace covers me like a perfectly warm blanket on the coldest of nights. I step into the office again. I tip my head to Linda; she answers the phone without looking up, but her shoulders lift the slightest bit. Her steady, repetitive voice is no longer a nuisance; it is proof that my ears still work. A reminder that somewhere in the world, a mother’s lullaby drifts unheard to her deaf child’s ear, and her heart breaks with the longing that one day his eyes might lift to meet hers, hearing her love through the silence. Life may sometimes seem dull, a blank, colorless canvas. But the paint waits, swirling thickly in the palette, aching for the brush to dance.Small decisions carve out the grand life moments. Gratitude, an overrated word maybe, yet its expression flickers light into the dimmest places. It is not such a bad thing, after all, to romanticize one’s life. To fall in love with the things that awaken the soul. To pray, to hope, to believe, to receive what the heart dares still to expect. On the days when the coffee cools too quickly, and the world fades into a gray blur behind closed eyelids — it is precisely then that the soul must choose to see again.