Mornings

I may like to sleep but there is something about mornings, especially in foreign nation, which draw me in. London is sunnier in the mornings. If the sun isn’t greeting you by 7 am, I’ve discovered, then the day is probably going to be pretty blah. I stare out my window and a jet makes a rapid line in the direction of Ireland. His jet stream is beautiful against the spring blue sky, a sort of blue that I’d expect to see on a “calming” tea package. This dorm is a square of brick of different layers of brick. As I breathe in deeply, I expect to smell the exquisite scent of Mexico or the salty aroma of the Costa Rican sea side. London’s aroma is one of mist; the absence of this smell leaves me completely disoriented. Mornings are empowering. Today it is cold. Cold is a temperature that is pretty normal to my mother and the rest of the world. Those outside walk around in shorts and t-shirts; I sit here with my window wide open in a sweatshirt and jeans. A green tree peaks its unpruned head over the corner of the lowest point of my dormitory. The brown of the building with the blue of the sky and the little blotch of green, give me an outdoorsy feelings. Mornings give me the momentum to believe that I am capable of anything. Today I want to jump out of an airplane. I’d love to raft down a river with the water splashing against my skin, or climb a tree in a dress and hang out of it like a monkey. But alas, I shut my window. My morning dreams cease to my morning reality. I open a book about the Solow Model and Neoclassical methods of European Integration. My mind must focus, but my heart desperately wants to meet, to know rather, the souls impacted by the graphs that will direct, and have been captaining for decades, their very lives.