The softness of mornings
Magical, ubiquitous, fading all too fast. Having been born with a love for midnight, I've always know I'm not a morning person...but I still admire the softness of calm mornings.
There's a mix of pale light peeking in and shadows warmed by the golden glow of lamplight in corners. Mornings to me mean light, softness, and peace.
This, of course, only refers to mornings when I intentionally rise early. If not, mornings only herald the deafening blare of an alarm clock that reminds me in harsh, unfeeling tones that I cannot sleep any more.
But on mornings when I can (but don't have to) set my alarm to seven, I now feel a quiet sort of content at doing so.
I keep my blinds closed, shuttering the light--not too much is an important part to the routine--and wrap myself in an huge, plush, white robe, soft as can be. Then to the kitchen for tea, only English Breakfast, please, or coffee if I have stopped to pick some up the night before.
And lately, delightfully, I sit down, set a timer, and write.
I write whatever comes to mind, which is almost never fiction. Today it is this. Another writer calls it clearing out the morning cobwebs.
To me, it feels like finding my voice again. A sort of spiritual discipline. I often daydream about just sitting down to write but when given the chance, rarely do so. And so this begins.
Sit. Write. Sift through the words. No forethought. Do the work.
And so, I write.
To my great surprise, each time the timer goes off, I do not want to stop. I keep writing. The circle continues.
Mornings, finally, feel like an old friend who nudges your shoulder with a half-smile: See? I knew you could do it.