Morning Rain

Today I'm supposed to be breathing. Moving slowly. But habit builds itself a home and can't be broken down overnight just because it's a weekend. It's a house, not an easy-up tent. Besides, there is too much restlessness in these bones to sleep past 3:30 am. So I've instead been staring out the window at the rain, illuminated by a street light that is, in my opinion, far too bright and bears too much likeness to a sunny day.

I have recruited an army of plants as living souls to keep me company. They do not demand my conversation (although science suggest words of encouragement may actually help them grow). We're learning to communicate through drooped leaves, the reaching of a stem towards the light, and unexpected color changes. We're still learning.

This morning, like every morning, I crept around quietly, peering at each plant, looking for changes. Several have joints that move their leaves up and down and I have decided that movement is good. When they're still for too long, I wonder what's wrong. What have I messed up this time?

This morning, the calathea's leaves are slightly lifted (it's about time!), the prayer plant's new leaf is beginning to unfold, and the monstera's shoots are still rolled tightly but appear longer. It's the beginning of spring, and I wonder if those new leaves will be the first to have the coveted splits.

The night is fading to a lighter grey and the street lamp has finally turned off. Rain falls softly on the pavement and coaxes me "Find your slippers, pour another cup of coffee, bring your blanket out on to the balcony. You can breathe here."