Angels in the eary morning . . .

Angels, in the early morning

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Angels, in the early morning
May be seen the Dews among,
Stooping—plucking—smiling—flying—
Do the Buds to them belong?

Angels, when the sun is hottest
May be seen the sands among,
Stooping—plucking—sighing—flying—
Parched the flowers they bear along.

Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson did not name her poems, she numbered them. She did not write them in a book, but on the back of receipts and napkins and she bundled them in her desk drawers.

The cab will be here in 2 hours to take me to the airport. I am going to see my family and friends for Christmas. I love Christmas - yet it is the absolute hardest time of the year. From October 10th - January 19 for the past 15 years, there have been many of the most painful times or worst choices of my life. Some for no reason, for others, reason indeed. . .

Tonight I couldn't stop crying. I was so sad that I won't be with Kyle for the holidays. See, I am so excited to see my family and friends, but because this time is so scary it makes the distance feel like gaps in my soul. Like there are areas in need of patching. It doesn't make much sense and when I am there it will be just fine. But the prospect is hard.

So I will think of this poem and the gift of being up so early in the morning. I love flying out during sun rise, or just after, the sky is amazing and the clouds so soft. However in this weather I imagine it will look different. But it will, nonetheless, be like finding the fairies in Kensington Gardens - difficult at best. So I will look for the Angels in the early morning and maybe on the dew on the plane's wing I will see them stooping—plucking—smiling—flying and guiding us safely.