Babying My Will

The steaming mug convinces a bare majority of the fingers gripping it for dear life that worse things have happened than icy mornings. A slow, childishly slow, release of the ceramic vestige of warmth and the mock tears of grief for the parting of ways takes place as part of a winter ritual cursing dawn's impotence.
There are needs and shoulds and wants and musts that drive a harder bargain or threaten with a bigger stick than body comforts, and so I muster my will to force that final push out of the door.
I usually feel stronger after an act of will, however significant or mundane. It's nice to have a few less than momentous decisions with which to experience the power rush of willing myself to something wise but not necessarily gratifying. My will needs to get all the strokes it can to build its courage for the decisions where more is at stake than shivering fingers.