The bulldog snores.
At 3am, his growling grunts rumbling from chambers of deep puppy slumber send me into the kitchen, barefoot and in search of brownies.
Standing over the sink, I indulge in big bites of chocolate deliciousness.
3am is the best time to eat brownies. In the dark, in the quiet, when the world is asleep, when the bulldog snores blissfully, I am granted the stillness to relish every bite of my own secret dessert party, and hear more accurately, over the giant, mouthful gulps of brownie, the crackle of my own thoughts.
3am. The bulldog snores. I eat brownies. I think about bombs.
I think about packages. The nonchalant, mundane act of picking up a package left on a porch, propped up against the door, scooted off to the side of the welcome mat.
I think about the morning rush, getting ready, getting prepared, getting and going, and noticing the package and throwing it into the mix of getting ready, getting prepared, being responsible, opening the package before leaving, before the official start of the day.
Mind still in motion to get ready and get going into the current of the day, and cutting open the package, and pulling apart the flaps, tearing through the tape.
I think of the packages stacked by the front door, and I decide to be helpful, and carry them in, and send a text to inform the dog’s owner that there are packages waiting. I almost, for a reason I cannot connect, not yet, text that the packages are from Amazon Prime, and then delete it because I fancy I’m being too descriptive and let it be.
Now, at 3am, eating the second brownie, I wonder back to that hit of insight, that intuitive hunch to clarify that the boxes are from Amazon Prime, because I didn’t know about the packages exploding, killing, injuring, damaging lives and unleashing an uneasiness, a fear that hurries underneath a string of Texas spring days that are surreal in their exquisite beauty.
I think of my walks with the bulldog, Lunchbox. (Yes, his name is Lunchbox, and his name perfectly reflects his playfulness, his cheeky adorableness, and utter craze for all things human food, particularly coffee cake and hamburger.)
Lunchbox takes such jolly strides in our walks. He lifts his noble head, cheeks billow like curtains in the wind, tongue rolls out of the side as he hugely grins. His cinnamon bun like tail darts up and down. Four-legged joy on the move.
At 3am, as Lunchbox sleeps, as I finish the second brownie, I think about bombs and feel the weight of my life.
How easily I could trip over a wire while walking or riding a bike. How easily I could pick up a package without a second thought, just thinking I’m being helpful, I’m being nice. How easily…how quick…the interruption…the end.
I taste the chocolate coating my teeth, blanketing my tongue. I feel my feet pressed against the cool floorboards. I stare at the crumbs littering the bottom of the bin.
There’s a startling clarity to channel my energy, my time, my precious life toward only Love, Creativity, Joy, Healing.
There’s a desperate rush, a begging to forgive, to relinquish, to release a burden of grudges that has been stagnating my flow of energy, because typically when I’m awake at 3am, I chew on old memories and relapse into rounds and rounds of spiteful rants that never find form, are never delivered, but stuff up mental space.
I remember the conversation I caught on NPR about a man who now dedicates his life to peace literacy. As a youth, he fantasized about killing people, even people who were kind to him because the wound threatened to swallow him, but it didn’t, he journeyed through his pain and now advocates and teaches peace.
His confession terrifies me, though, because I hoped to believe that kindness could be a shield from cruelty, random violence.
Well, I’m screwed, I momentarily lament, and then, shrug off the self-pity.
Am I living from a core seat of peace?
I am not responsible for the perception, the reaction, the projection of others.
I am responsible for me.
I am responsible for my own pain, and how I choose to sit with my pain, and utilize that energy. I am responsible for the tone of my thoughts, the meditations and murmurs of my heart.
I choose to show up in fierce compassion and tender strength.
I choose to see through the lens of forgiveness, understanding while standing courageously in my own authenticity and vibrant truth.
I choose to trust my instinct, to trust my gut, to repeatedly cleanse and clear my own internal channels of thoughts and feelings so I can embody, and speak, and act from a energetic presence of peace.
My only regret is giving away my power to wounded people, and taking the world too personally. It’s not personal, only if I make it so. The reaction reveals the pain point, a spot in need of healing. And I can relearn and relearn this lesson, recycling it back into purposeful being.
At 3am, I can taste the preciousness of my life. And I yearn to relish, receive, revel in every fleeting moment, and this begins again right here, right now, by claiming full responsibility for my life, by choosing forgiveness to free myself, and to be a force of presence in the very heartbeat of each second.
I lick the crumbs from the bottom of the bin before slipping back into soft sheets. Lunchbox stirs and cuddles closer to me before lapsing back into an orchestra of snores.
I find the snoring comforting, a being breathing and heartbeating beside me, a song to keep me present to the vitality of life around and within me. This helps me drift back to sleep, and as I shift back into dreams, I continue to taste the last bite of chocolate.