Half Moon Morning

In the wee, tiny hours of the morning, black as squid trolling the darkened waves, when only monks arise to the sound of bells, when the quiet holy of humanity are about their silent work: the boy rolling papers to be thrown on dewy lawns, milkmen of old, filling their carts with clinking bottles of fresh, raw milk, I am here.
In silence. Awake after what is truly only a nap of a night's sleep.

I showered as one enters the baptismal bath, the mikvah; ready to be dunked thrice and to arise alive in a new way.
I am about to enter a holy journey.
I washed each unbejeweled inch of me knowing that it will never be just this way again.

Soon I will see headlights turn in as a friend comes to take me to the hospital.
They will shine directly in my face as I sit here in my office, clicking silently to you.
That light heralding departure, arrival, transformation.

I am grateful to have been scheduled this early, that I may share this time with chants of Gregorians and Buddhists somewhere far, so near to my heart that I hum along in soul. The lift me into the bright lights and busyness of pre-operative preparations, again washing and marking, sanctifying unknowingly.

I will awaken later today reformed.
How Mysterious that I will be less, yet more whole.

Like Quasimodo, I swing at the end of the rope of this morning, deaf to what others might hear, yet in bliss at what shivers wildly through my body.
I am my own Esmeralda, also, seeing beauty with such love, at what others might turn away from.

So much is here.
This dark morning of rebirth is mine.