Once Upon this year

The Sage of Beginnings doesn’t knock…

I know this because I wake up before the dawn of light… before sound… before thought… pulled gently from sleep by that feeling that something is shifting. Nothing wrong, simply different. The room is dim, steeped in that fragile hour when night begins to loosen its grip but refuses to fully leave. My phone beside my bed glows with indecisive numbers that are too early to be morning, but too late to still be dreaming. 

 I sit up slowly, letting the blankets slide off the bed. 

The air feels thicker, warmer, as if it can hold its breath. When I look towards the window, I begin to understand the feeling.

They’re already there….

Not a dramatic sight, not a looming being. Just present in the moment. As if they’ve always been a part of the room, and I’m the one showing up late. 

Pale gold and quiet light wrap around them, catching the folds of their robes like water hugging stones. Their hair glints like silver wrapped in warmth, and their eyes meet mine. They hold the calming sense of someone who has seen countless first mornings. 

“You’re early,” I say, my voice rough, tired, and unsure whether I’m allowed to speak first. 

They smile, slow and knowing. 

“Beginnings usually are.” 

I let out a breath that I didn’t realize was a prisoner in my chestm yet my heart isn’t racing. It’s steady, curious as I begin to notice more details. The faint scent of green, like rain hitting soil for the first time. 

They stand near the window, one hand resting lightly on a staff carved into a spiral that seems to open outward. In their other hand is something small and glowing. A seed, I think. It pulses softly, not bright enough to hurt my eyes, just enough to be undeniably alive.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and the floor is cold against my feet, reminding me that the world is a tough place to walk through. I like that, it reminds me that we have to present, and not floating through it. 

So I ask, “What do I do?” 

This doesn’t come from a place of confusion, it’s a request. Permission and simplicity. 

The Sage approaches me. I feel he heat, weight, and intention of the seed they place in the palm of my hand. I have words in my mouth, but I haven’t finished writing that sentence yet. 

“I am your beginning, ” they say, “wake up and choose an act for your soul and body to do.”

I look down at the seed, then back up at them. “That’s it?”

Their laugh is soft, kind, almost amused. “That’s everything.”

A doubt surfaces, quiet but familiar. “What if I don’t do it perfectly?”

The Sage’s expression softens even further, as if they’ve been waiting for this question.

“Then,” they say, “you’ll be doing it correctly.”

Silence grows in the room between us, not heavy, but spacious. The room brightens as the sun bounces higher, and I feel something inside of me doing the same. 

“It’s time to greet your first step,” they say. 

And as the light strengthens, the Sage begins to fade, vanishing and becoming a part of the morning. 

The seed is still warm in my hand.

I stand up.

Tomorrow, I’ll begin again.