My mind comes tumbling down slowly.  Released from the delicate weave of dreams, it descends back down to my skull with a floaty, Alice-down-the-rabbithole, intentional nonchalance.

I’m still between the ceiling and my brain, so my eyes have not yet realized the option to open.  This is a good thing.  It forces my ears to place me somewhere, and I hear the vague breakfast chatting of early birds from the window to my left.  The deepened voice of a mother says something vaguely pirate(or is it beanstalk giant?)-esque and the familiar screech-giggle of my young next door neighbors erupts on cue.  Audible evidence of the existence of innocence in an otherwise increasingly jaded world.  My tired face thanks them for this with a slow raising of heavy eyelids.

Blinking eyes drink in the summer morning sun, at once anchoring and elevating me.  After a weekend of salt and sun in my happy place, home and a morning ballet class feel refreshing.  As much as I love a few days away, I find my daily routine most therapeutic.