It's one of those mornings. Hot and humid already, yet still climbing. Not much sleep to be had last night. The morning started with conflict and acrimony. Yesterday had too much of that too. And there's lots of work to do.

But none of that makes this one of those mornings.

It's one of those mornings because I'm feeling I can't read enough of what I need to read, learn enough of what I need to learn, or do enough of what I need to do. At work for an hour, I feel I've done far too little.

Why the hell am I writing instead of doing all that stuff?

Thanks for asking.

Here's the thing: it's one of those mornings because I've chosen to feel certain ways about things. The conflict and acrimony this morning? I've chosen to hang onto it, feeling wounded instead of compassionate. That's a poor choice indeed. The conflict yesterday? I've chosen to carry it into today. The lack of sleep? It's not so bad and it's good reason to make a spectacular cup of coffee. The heat and humidity? My office is air-conditioned.

I'm writing to change perspective, to orient myself back to the path on which I do what I need to do, learn what I need to learn, read what I need to read. Writing brings me back. Maybe you go for a run or meditate or sing in the car. I write and a couple hundred words later how do I feel?

Like it's going to be one of _those_mornings.

The kind of morning in which I stop every so often and breathe, in which I remind myself of choices I've made and choices available to me. The kind of morning in which I write a return to my body, mind, and spirit, a return to the path. The kind of morning in which I find myself ready now to ask what's next and then go do it.

It's one of those mornings. The good kind.