I woke up in a world where bright white light bends its way through gauzy curtains and refracts and reflects into shapes on the wall; where muffled sounds echo up from the street below, just distant enough to make this little apartment feel like a cabin up high in the sky.
Here, in this world, on this morning, the only qualification for being called "Doctor!" is a white Doc McStuffins coat; and it's perfectly normal to don a sparkly tutu over any other article of clothing--or no clothes at all. There are masterpiece works of art coming to life on a miniature easel in the corner, though they'll likely never be seen, like the second bedroom off the right of the hall is a secret storehouse of created treasure. The native tongue is composed of words no one else has heard of; I consider myself proficient, and to witness the clear and simple communication between its speakers is a beautiful thing. I study their faces built from the smoothest porcelain skin, large round eyes carved out that seem to see all.
I wasn't happy, at first, to wake up today. The bendy light felt foreign and too hard to bear alone this morning. In short: I didn't feel like doing all the things I had to do. I didn't want to be the housekeeper or the laundress or the disciplinarian or the Decider of All Things.
So, I wasn't. Instead, I was an anthropologist, privileged to have found this mystical spot to observe such rare and breathtaking and short-lived wonders, learning what they mean within the bigger picture, but mostly enjoying their tiny, simple perfection.