It’s a beautiful morning this morning. My apartment is filled with light, the shadows of tree branches dancing on the walls. Small things I like to look at: Christmas photos from friends and my guitar, and a sunlit star atop the little Norfolk pine. A Christmas card with the Mother and Child and a cheerful message from a friend whose family survived Katrina--but whose home did not.

This morning I awakened lonely and afraid--my teachers of the past year have been unavailable this week--ill or needed by others. I saw the Narnia movie yesterday and could only think--was the book The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe such a promotion for war? I saw traffic before me, isolation, nightmares and deterioration.

But the reality is this room with light and I don’t have any wisdom, just the putting one foot ahead of the other and looking outward today instead of in. I have people who need me, and I will do my best to be there for them. Sometimes you just have to get over yourself.

The light in the room has shifted onto my face--I can hardly see the computer screen. That is the point of the day, isn’t it. Not the meal preparation and the shopping and the cleaning--but the awakening to the light.