Lightworker Cafe
<p>Too early for a lamp, too dark for a human eye to sort things out entirely. I’m awake, holding a notebook, aware the page is blank.</p>
<p>Predawn sky flickers with near constant lightning. I am recording flashes as they telegraph through wide slats in the blinds I used a long, thin plastic wand to twist open. The neighbor’s single story house bounces back a stunning flash of brilliance, photons paint the stucco then discharge the air I take in, anticipating thunder. Breathe in. Breathe out. The pen cap falls and then a booming pulse rattles old northern firmament.</p>
<p>I’m not ready to get busy with the grounds and ladle — is the cup even empty? The act of making coffee feels too much for me. So I am no more than unseen ink on a blue-striped page in the corner of the sofa, scribbling in a rush to conjure some new way of raining through this obligatory sunrise.</p>
<p>What would make love new to a jaded world?</p>
<p>Sneakers in the boardroom? Edible dreamscapes in the bedroom? A higher rate of success reported by teams of search and rescue on a distant continent? Water for parched souls skimmed directly from a green interstellar comet?</p>
<p>This mountain-steeped, lake-pocked, river-strewn blue marble spins tidal depths of emotions, storms, and mournful drought — and all I want is a new key turning in the lock of my warehouse stocked with lucid spells for wellness and triumph. Light, I can deliver in the time it takes the moon to sneak through a clash of clouds and set the stove on high to start the process of a single cup of coffee made one hot ladle at a time.</p>
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