There was a moment, understanding the power of looking into his own eyes, that he felt a sort of exchange. Energy going into the mirror, energy coming back. Understanding. Questioning. Deeper understanding. Ultimately, forgiveness. He forgave himself daily.

This was the beginning of his morning routine.

The lightness that came from this volley lasted clear through the shower. Permeated the struggle to find matching socks. Faltered during the brief self-scolding for not doing it the night before as he’d promised himself yesterday morning. 

He renewed his promise.

This was the end of his morning routine. 

Going barefoot freed him from this whole song and dance, and he sang and danced up the basement steps to enter the sunshine. 

In those few seconds it took, he managed to torture himself for not vacuuming the steps. Forgiven. 

As he opened the door, he was thankful for the doorknob he managed to install after seven beers one summer night, although he stripped the screw and the knob itself sat somewhat crookedly on the 60-year-old door. Congratulated and forgiven. 

Sunshine awaited - he sat in a chair, directly under the sun, and felt like he was a part of something bigger than himself. He never felt bigger than the thing, but in these moments he felt a part of it. 

Years had passed since the last time he felt absolutely powerless, rising from a motel bed after a night of Xanax, Klonopin, cocaine, and heroin. He would curse himself then for “wanting to take as much as possible to feel as good as possible,” but no forgiveness followed. No volley, no lightness - and perhaps most strikingly - no sunshine. Despite the ever-present star itself, no sunshine. 

There’s a difference between being in the sunshine’s presence, being in the sunshine, and, like in these moments, the sunshine being in you.

Only hours had passed since he’d wandered up the old porch steps recently repaired but yet to be painted. Congratulated and forgiven. He usually turned the lights on, hung his keys up, sighed, and depending on how many beers he’d had (ranging from 0-3), he either skillfully tiptoed into the kitchen for a snack he never found or he stomped right to the shower to lie down in hot water for about 35 minutes. He did the latter sober.

This was (were) the beginning(s) of his nightly routine. 

After either the fruitless hunt (or fruitful since he usually ate fruit after not finding the snack he originally searched for) or the shower that left him like a pink banana squash, he made it downstairs to a sleeping troop of people who loved him dearly. Once his bed was in sight, he decided to meditate on the day’s blessings and listen to white noise to exercise his subconscious. Transurfing. He decided he could fold socks for the next day early the following morning. 

This was the end of his nightly routine.