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Category: morning

Almost Morning

Almost Morning

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Though waking up in the wee hours has its deficits, it also has its benefits. And one of them is watching the sky lighten, the trees gradually emerge from the dusk, each individual branch making a pact with the light. Yes, we are here.

Today it was after 6 a.m. when this happened. And even now, as we edge toward 7, the morning is still uncertain, unknowable.

Soon the sun will glance through the front oaks and sparkle on the dew. I’ll walk out the door with music in my ears, lace up my shoes, trot down the street and put a stamp on the day.

But until then it is still almost morning. A time of infinite possibility.

Leaving in Darkness

Leaving in Darkness

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This morning I left the house in darkness. I navigated the front stoop steps in darkness, fumbled for the car key in darkness, backed more slowly down the driveway — that’s right — in darkness.

Inky skies, illuminated instrument panel, sipping my tea as I cruised through silent neighborhoods. The road ahead of me opened only a glimpse of the miles ahead; the rest of the way was shrouded, unknowable.

Beginning the day in darkness gives the eyes time to adjust — the soul, too. I savor these moments of peace.

Still, the best part about leaving in darkness is arriving in the light.

Earlier Kind of Morning

Earlier Kind of Morning

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As mornings dawn earlier and earlier, these last few cloudy days bring a brief pause, a few days that start as slowly as earlier, more wintry ones.

I love how summer mornings dawn bright and strong, with bird song and sunshine before 6. But I also appreciate the dim, still kind of morning.

The kind that gives you a chance to wake up slowly. The kind we have today.

Up and Out

Up and Out

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The colors drew me outside earlier than I’d planned to go. Oranges and reds on the horizon, or what I could see of the horizon through our trees. The sky was firing up, and it was time to walk.

I moved eastward as if by instinct, following the sun. By the time I’d made it to the corner, though, the sky was already draining into blue, so brief was this morning’s brilliance.

But still, it was enough to drag me from the house into a stiff and uncertain wind, to begin the outside part of the day before I was entirely ready for it. Not altogether a bad idea.

There is something to be said for spontaneity, for lack of hesitation, for being moved by beauty. Not moved as in touched, but literally moved. Propelled to lace up the shoes, open the door, step outside.

Not every time, but often enough, the day is changed just by entering it.

Waking Up

Waking Up

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Up and out early. Moisture fills the air and glows in the lamplight. I play some Gabrielli but it’s too loud for this delicate time of day. I try Dan Fogelberg’s “To the Morning.” Ahhh; that’s better.

I consider turning off the music entirely and listening to the birds. They’re waking up and singing lustily. But the music is good, too. In fact, it sounds a lot like the birds, has the same gradual crescendo.

There are few cars on the street at this time of day, and the ones I see drive sleepily, as if they, too, are just waking up. The day seems to be holding its breath.

On the main road, cars are more numerous and faster. I ease into a trot. The tall grass is wet as I brush by it. Time now for louder music. “Day by Day,” a sung prayer.  I’m fully awake now. Ready to come home, touch the keyboard, write.

Morning in the Garden

Morning in the Garden

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Morning in the garden. Holly blossoms in the air. I move some ferns and plant some impatiens. As I plunge my hands into the worked soil, I feel connected to the day. Birds sing from their green perches.

I measure the warmth, the freedom of being outside in shirt sleeves before 8 a.m. It’s a good way to live.

My neighbor, Nancy, reads my mind: “I love mornings in the garden, don’t you?” She’s on her daily  walk. I will soon be on mine, too.

Parfait

Parfait

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No epiphany today, despite the date. In its place, some sights and sounds. On my walk this morning the eastern sky was streaked pink and orange, a parfait of dawn. As the sun rose and the sky lightened, contrails made lacy white stripes through the blue.

Birds were active today, jays and robins and crows all chirping and hopping and flitting about. I decided that bird song in the morning is a sure-fire way to improve the day.

At the end of my walk, I heard a strange bark-like noise and turned my head just in time to see a plump red fox trot through the meadow. He moved like our dog Copper does, with pluck and verve and a bit of a waddle. When he reached the woods he turned and posed, then ambled on. I felt his wildness in my bones.

The Place Called Morning

The Place Called Morning

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When I can’t sleep, sometimes Emily Dickinson comes to mind:

“Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day?

And then, at the end, “Please to tell a little pilgrim/Where the place called morning lies.”

A place called morning: I imagine it gray and windswept, the land still scoured by night, a new day awakening from slumber, pulling itself together, splashing water on its face.

Or, I see it riding in on clouds of light, the most important guest at the ball. A bit overdressed, perhaps.

Or, I hear it first. Not this time of year, but in spring, when the early robin, that upstart, belts out his pre-dawn tune.

This time of year, mornings are black and still, a kingdom of stars and frost in the lamplight.

Morning Rights

Morning Rights

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The cars are unloaded, the bags unpacked, the laundry, well let’s just say it’s “in process.” The young adults are back, sort of. And it is a culmination, is it not? A glorious jumble of conversations and cooking styles and inside jokes. It is like surfing a very big wave, though I have never surfed. It is, I should say, like that drawn-out pause at the top of the roller coaster, catching the breath before the fun begins.

On these mornings-after I tiptoe quietly through the vanishing darkness. I turn off movies, put away cereal boxes, even (supreme pleasure) tuck blankets around sleeping children.

And then I claim the early morning. It is still mine.

In Medias Res

In Medias Res

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I love this phrase. I first learned what it meant when I read The Odyssey in high school. “In the middle of things.” It’s how The Odyssey begins: in the middle of the story.

Some days begin “in medias res.” I’m catching up with myself before I’ve even begun. Today was like that. I woke up thinking about one of the 120 professor profiles I’m editing at work. Have I pulled out the sidebar information? Have I shown it to the professor? Plainly, it was time to get up.

So I did, and because my morning began before it started, I’ve tried to provide a more intentional counterpoint: I’ve read, I’ve written in my journal, and now my entry here. The weather is still and quiet, perfect for catching my breath, for attending to bird song, for feeling, in my bones, that this is a new day, a fresh start, a gift.