At 5:30 in the morning, I have the house to myself.
I've packed my husband's lunch and sent him off to work, and there's hours yet
before the first child awakes.
Why do I love this time?
The darkness wraps itself around me like a cocoon, the house
breathes quietly the muffled hum of heater and the occasional
refrigerator rumble.
If I sit and strain my ears I can make out the ticking of the clock
on the bathroom shelf and the regular rhythm of the ceiling fan
above my bed.
The world outside is nothing, a void of blackness between midnight
and dawn.
During this magical time of in-between,
anything seems possible.
The hours ahead are mine alone.
Responsibilities mean nothing before the sun rises.
Out come my Bible, my journal, my books.
In the dim yellow light over my desk I study,
and write,
and read.
The stars are still distant pinpricks outside my window
when I lace up my shoes
and push my body through it's paces.
Sweat drips from my skin
as I drink
water, water, water.
When my legs have solidified back from
their post-workout jelly
to actual working things of muscle and bone again,
I walk through the house
opening curtains and blinds
as I go.
As I circle from my bedroom at the western end
to the living spaces facing east,
the sky grows lighter,
pinker,
more golden.
Out onto the porch I go, the arctic air,
well below freezing, hitting my skin,
still hot from exertion,
like a pleasant rain of icy needles
as I gaze across the park to where
the sun rises.
The match flame of the winter sun
flares slowly into life
and sets the eastern sky on fire.
Be still my heart.
I have just watched a day being born.
I rush to take a picture.
The neighbors must have
become accustomed by now
to my rushing out into the yard, the street,
at all hours of the day,
in various stages of dress,
with makeup or without,
hair in a messy bun atop my head,
or flowing freely in the wind,
or still dripping wet from a shower,
to take a picture of something
no one else has even noticed.
The sky is God's palette,
winter mornings His favorite chance
to use these glorious colors,
the purple of a bruise,
orange like sweet dripping sherbet,
the pink of cotton candy.
The sun rises slowly,
as do I.
The sun starts her ascent
in the darkness,
with no one around to notice,
as do I.
The sun takes her time,
enjoying her solitude in the
darkness,
as do I.
And then the sun lights the day on fire,
and the people arise
and the bustle begins,
and the people get to doing
all the things that must be done,
wishing for their beds instead.
But the sun has been awake for hours,
stretching herself slowly as the
darkness fades to light.
The people of the world stumble forth,
half asleep and yawning, but the sun
is wide awake
and ready for the day,
as am I.
Why I Wake Early
by Mary Oliver
Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who made the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and the crotchety –
best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light –
good morning, good morning, good morning.
Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.”
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