No Frogs to Swallow

Saturday morning is my favorite time to be alive.

I usually wake up early as a matter of habit, but can’t bring myself to get out of bed soon. During the few hours that I have the light of the day for myself, wrapped in a cool blanket, without having to go anywhere, I feel rewarded for a whole week of running.

I lay there and think about the things I like, entertain the thoughts that were pushed into the closet, stretch myself like a starfish over the bed, and let the sunlight bathe my face, hands and feet, to draw out the dirt and grime that accumulates under my skin from being covered up all the time.

I used to be afraid of having nothing to do.

Shadowed by the big men who knew better, I used to wake up already disgusted by the idea of a big fat frog shouting at me in a rhythmical manner:

lazy

lazy

lazy

It took me years of unlearning and relearning to wake up grateful for the possibility of a cup of coffee, the inevitability of the sunrise, the embrace of a familiar hug, and my body’s natural will to stretch and move.

I don’t think any of us were born to do anything special. Isn’t it the pressing anxiety of existence that prompts us to always run? Run to be running, be running to run ahead, run ahead to be known as stronger runners. Stronger runners that we are, turning life into numbers.

On Saturday mornings, I take my time to get out of bed and lay down on the sofa by the window and look at the ravens that have the whole sky to fly.

I look at the mountains that have nothing to do.

And the clouds that seem to melt in the sky just as smoothly as vanilla ice cream in my mouth.

Good morning.

I have nothing to prove to you and no frogs to swallow.