From Our Breakfast Table

From Our Breakfast Table a column that Anya Rompas was (supposed to share) with her husband while the
both of them are enjoying having their hearty and long breakfast. Discussing all and every topic imaginable,
from the personal to the mundane, from the political to the magical, from the upsetting to the delightful.
It is on their breakfast table, together. With scrambled eggs, orange juice and coffee, she dissects
our fears and concerns, plans and fantasies... until it's time for lunch!

welcome home, starling

you are safe now

Sometimes Waking Up Can Be Easy

Sometimes Waking Up Can Be Easy

Sometimes waking up can be easy. I open my eyes and I can see a vast green meadow with beautiful wildflowers and butterflies of many colours. I feel a nice and cool breeze blowing through my hair and I inhale everything. I inhale the universe and all those clichés. But I really do not mind.

Then I come out from the warm cocoon of my blanket. Feeling blessed to see my husband and daughter. I am actually keen to join in their little dance of getting the little princess ready for school. And it is like we have done it for many years. Nobody steps on anybody’s foot. No milk is spilled. No fork falling from the table. No stale bread. No dirty water bottle needs washing up. No uniform socks still in the laundry. Pure bliss.

And when they leave, I actually feel like having a shower. And when the sprays of hot water hit the top of my head, it is like giving myself a present, instead of a mundane chore. I start having ideas for the poem I am working on. And as I come out of the shower, reborn into the bedroom, I quickly change and happily pat my face with my toner. Today even feels like a good day to put on a little make up. I do not loathe the process of putting on thin layers after layers to achieve that devil of no-make-up make-up. Moisturizer, eye cream, CC cream with SPF 30, loose setting powder, eyebrow mousse, a dab of blush and/or bronzer, mascara, lip balm, berry lipstick. Smooch. In that order.

Now on to opening the curtains to let the sunshine in. I sit cross-legged on the floor and try to inhale the rays imagining myself turn into a firefly—can a firefly light itself in the morning? What would be the point?—before tidying up the room and making the bed so I can set up my workspace. I open my laptop and open the Evernote notebook where I keep my poems and continue where I left off. I feel God’s presence and am humbled to find that words are actually coming out from my keyboard and sear themselves onto the once blank page. In such a way that they match the images I want to convey as close as I possibly can. And it also feels like I have found a way into myself. Finally brave enough to walk on the foot path with all its ramifications. Startled by the first branches I am stepping on, scratched cheek, sore ankles, suddenly feeling all sentimental upon listening to a warbler so far up in a tree I cannot see it and so on and so forth, until they cease being mere effects of an excursion and become what they are.

Memories. Most of them I have tried to bury, so no one, including myself, could ever discover them. Others are what I am still unable to decipher. And some are tainted with regrets. It is simply amazing how one’s mind can wander and get lost to be found again in a shoebox of a room. Now there is light, I can see everything within me with a new pair of eyes. Another cliché but like I said before, I do not mind them anymore.

Because there will be days unlike this one.

My Mother and I

My Mother and I

Familiar Messes

Familiar Messes