Sometimes I'm convinced that Mondays would be wretched days no matter where they fell in the week. There's just something about seeing that awful word slumbering peacefully in its little calendar box that fills me with rage.
This week I need peace. I need deep breaths and a mind swept clean of shrapnel.
I need Maya Angelou.
Here is an excerpt from On the Pulse of Morning
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day,
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up, and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country,
And say simply,
Very simply,
With hope,
Good morning.
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