Before the Day Claims Me

I like to think that with each dawn, the universe gifts us with a new canvas, blank and untainted, promising a world of possibilities. Within those first moments of consciousness, before we settle into mundane routines of a caffeinated adulthood, there's a small space to become something other. Something new, diverting the course of our strides into a world of new opportunities. Sure, there are risks, but isn’t that the point of an adventure? When did we lose our sense of throwing caution to the wind and sailing into unknown territory, and letting the adventure shape us?

It’s true: not many of us are willing to leap into the unknown. The absence of guarantees rarely entices us; uncertainty has lost its allure. Instead, we grumble and walk into the frame of expectations, monotonous habits, and humdrum schedules, all signed off with a wearisome signature. Our canvases become painted with the brush from all the days we’ve already lived. What a drought of the soul.

I’m no different. I haven’t reached for my canvas either. I want to. I intend to. I stretch for it, only to be distracted midway by practicality. I suddenly become hyper-aware of time, finances, duty, and all the mind-numbing elements of adulthood that keep me alive. But before that happens, just before reality pulls me back into its orbit, there’s a quiet, undisturbed magic that transpires, namely hope, that inspires the imagination not only to dream but to hold onto those dreams tightly. After all, there’s always tomorrow, and who knows whether the version of me in tomorrow will finally choose the canvas.

I wasn’t always this way, a safety-seeking dullard. I’ve lived an adventurous life, although some have called it reckless, and I’ve had incredible experiences that have shaped and molded me into something beyond what I was born to be. For 30 years, I painted canvases—literally and figuratively—with newfound adventures and the stories they told, before something inconceivable happened—I began to age. The older I became, the more I craved stability. Or maybe it was because I got married and found my new reality to be a partnership rather than a singlehood of mischief and impulse. Either way, slowly, I slotted into the rhythm of hierarchy, chasing money in exchange for comfortable accommodation, food, health insurance, and the occasional treat.

Today, though, something changed—yet again. This morning, I paid attention to my blank canvas, watching it with interest. I didn’t let my sight or attention stray from it, and before the rush of emails and to-do lists, I considered what I wanted to paint onto my canvas, what colors would spill across the grain, and how the raised texture of acrylics would feel against my fingers.

For a moment, my imagination ran wild, racing through hallways crowded with half-formed ideas and forgotten ambitions. It skipped over concepts, becoming intoxicated with designs. Suddenly, I was revitalized by this moment of existing. A moment not defined by obligation and adult chores. I felt so alive, and more than that, I felt interconnected to myself.

I have some new ideas on where my north star is and how to carve a footpath to follow it. For now, I’m going to keep the ideas to myself as they’re only in the developmental stages—an idea suspended in early mist—but I’m going to nourish my canvas into fruition. After all, there’s a quiet magic in these moments of self-identification, purpose, and choosing to break away from societal pressures and expectations. I’m reminded that inspiration doesn’t demand fanfare; it flourishes in the simple act of noticing. This is the quiet beginning I nearly forgot I was allowed to claim.

In learning to pause before the day makes its demands on me, I’ve rediscovered the quiet truth that possibility never disappears—it only waits to be noticed again. The canvas doesn’t demand bravery or perfection; it asks only that I return to it with honesty. And so, as I gather these flickers of inspiration, I feel myself inching back toward the person who once leapt into the unknown without apology. Maybe I’m not starting over so much as remembering how to begin.