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Category: time

Slow Dawn

Slow Dawn

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There is something so companionable about waking up with the day. As my eyes open, the room fills with dim light. Shapes are still shadowy and bird song tentative. But the deck railing and rocking chair have already revealed themselves.

It is the perfect way to leave sleep behind. Dim, still, nothing expected of me. No loud jangly noises to make my head spin. The lights of a car on a distant road all the illumination I need — that and the light of this screen.

Only one thing could make this better.

I’ll walk to the kitchen now and pour myself a cup of tea.

Jump on the Day

Jump on the Day

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For the owls among us — heck, for most people — tonight’s time change is reason to cheer. In come the long, languorous evenings of spring and summer. In come barbecues, alfresco dining, after-dinner strolls and cricket-addled evenings. Not yet, of course, but we’re finally moving in that direction.

For the early-risers among us, though, the time change means a return to dark mornings.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. I’m so conditioned to predawn rising that morning light on a weekday makes me nervous. Have I overslept? What have I missed?

Waking in darkness is the ultimate jump on the morning. It’s being up before it’s day. And starting Monday, I’ll have it again.

Seven!

Seven!

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A quick glimpse back at older posts today to make sure I hadn’t written another called “Seven.” And  I haven’t. “Seven Times Seven.” “Mornings at Seven.” But not just “Seven.” So here we go.

Seven is not the time, though close; it’s 7:40 this instant. Seven is not the number of days or weeks or months until something important happens.

Seven is the temperature outside. Seven, which divides evenly into 28, which is today’s date. February 28. Almost March. And it’s seven.

I will say no more.

Wee Hours

Wee Hours

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The wee hours have become my home away from home, when I wake, willingly or not, to start the day. I’ve come to like these times: a cup of tea, laptop, writing this post. Sometimes an early walk when the morning is still fresh beneath my feet.

But when the wee hours are spent at an airport or Metro, they are not as enjoyable.

It’s then (now!) that I imagine how I’d like to spend them — curled up in lamplight, journal at hand, a few ideas rumbling around the old noggin, a shaggy dog at my feet.

Winter Morning

Winter Morning

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Gray, leaden skies today and snow in the forecast. I’m remembering a warmer morning, with open skies and a spectacular sunrise. One I almost missed until I spotted a streak of orange out the front windows and walked out on the deck.

It was the big show that morning, skies streaked orange and gold, clouds purpled at the horizon. Birds were at the feeder, grackles and chickadees, and in the distance the sounds of other birds, crows cawing, the cackle of a pileated woodpecker.

Everything was alive and singing — the birds, the wind stirring the winter brambles, even the sky, changing by the minute, the sun impatient to start the day.

Traveling Light

Traveling Light

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Speaking of single digits, we come today to the last single-digit date in January. This is cause for cautious celebration.

If today is the 9th, then tomorrow must be the 10th, and next Wednesday will be the 15th and we will be halfway through the month.

Not that I’m wishing my time away. Don’t get me wrong. But these early dates of January have always had the look of lone, lean pioneers. Leave them alone, let them pass.

They are the brave first days of the new year, sharpened and wary. They are simple and unadorned, one digit only. They are traveling light.

Fast Away

Fast Away

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As the old year passes, I take to the road. No time yet to mull over 2013. That will happen today, when I’m driving.

Meanwhile, a photo I snapped yesterday — sleeping vines, dried tendrils. Not unlike the palm of a hand or the expanse of a road map. Crinkled, worn, main arteries obvious now that leaves have gone.

Here at the cusp of a new year, it’s not hard to see where I’m going, where I’ve been.

One Hour Late

One Hour Late

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Morning comes late out here on the western edge of the eastern time zone. It’s 8 a.m. and the day is still groggy and gray.

If I lived here full-time, I might be less a morning person, more a creature of the night. In summer it’s light here till 10 p.m. and even in winter it’s long past 5 before the day goes away.

I think how far the light has to travel, what it passes on the way. The hills and hollows, cities and towns, birds and trees. Daylight sweeping east to west, bringing us morning …  one hour late.

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.