Early mornings, and I mean REALLY early mornings, are not to the naked eye beautiful things. At first, getting out of bed is a painful process, with the body a heavy weight, the cement floors feeling dreadfully cold as your bare feet softly swing down from the side of the bed in search of slippers. You try to gather the strength to stand, the courage to start the day, the energy to fight the gravitational pull back onto the mattress and under the sheets where it’s still warm from your body heat. You may look back and see that the cat has quickly reclaimed your spot, curling up in the still-depressed parts of the bed, where the smell of your skin give him a sense of comfort as he dozes off into his reveries. Even for the early worm, the darkness can slow down the stirring of the mind and the movement of the joints. But early mornings, to the soul, are dreadfully precious things. Not easily seen, there are benefits to starting the day BEFORE the day, if you know what I mean.
Some of the greatest of minds used the early morning as a haven. Georgia O’Keeffe was reported waking up to the sound of her dogs barking, making some tea, and taking a morning stroll. Henry David Thoreau made a habit of rising in time to hear the first birdsong. For these people, early mornings were opportunities to live slowly. To peruse and ponder, to ruminate over coffee cake and romanticize. There are others, too, who use early mornings to pursue passions. Sylvia Plath woke at 5am to write before caring for her young children, and Frank Lloyd Wright developed architectural designs from 4 to 7am before a day of business work ensued. For all of them, the predawn hours were the most golden of hours.
Early mornings are sanctuaries that need protecting. These are spaces that should be reserved specifically for the soul’s well-being. It is not for getting ahead at work, or for zombying over a social media feed. Ignore the menial tasks, the dishes that need to be washed from the night before, the emails that need opening, the laundry and the grocery lists. All of these are distractions. All of that can wait. They will get done because there is always time for such things. The mornings should be reserved with what feeds you, what gives you life. A passion project you’re working on, a new language you’re trying to learn, a moment of meditation, a morning of idleness, peace, and quiet. Even if you do nothing at all, whatever it takes to revitalize.
For me, it’s a medley of things. On some mornings, I wake up as the bars outside my window facing the main streets of downtown are closing up shop and night owls meander their ways home. I wake up at the last moment possible and slip on my baker uniform (a pair of jeans and a black tee), grab the water bottle and phone sitting on the dining table from the night before, slip on my Birkenstocks and look for the car keys on the hook. I slip into my car and head to the bakery, where I join another bleary-eyed baker, equally as passionate about the craft, equally as crazy to sign up for these midnight shifts, both of us working sixty to seventy hour weeks with baking as a ‘hobby-turned-hustle’. Four hours later, I arrive home, feed the cat, and put the hot water in the coffee pot as I hear Mikey rustling out of bed, about to start his day. These are mornings meant for passionate things.
Other mornings when I do not have a baker’s shift, I wake at exactly 6am to our sweet cat mercilessly meowing for food. I drink from the cup of water by my bedside before getting up to feed the cat as Mikey heads off to shower. It is here that I spend the first thirty minutes awake writing in a journal, or pulling up this blog. Sometimes I’ll pick up a book from the night stand and read where I’ve left off. Other times, I’ll yoga when Mike and I have to carpool. After his shower, he hops back into bed and reads to himself. At around 7am, we both stop what we’re doing and head to the kitchen. We prep breakfast and lunch pails. Occasionally, one of us will make coffee. We sit down at the table and talk, or stare out the window. Our roommate comes up to do the same, and leaves before we’re even done eating. I put the dishes in the sink as he does a few morning exercises. He brushes his teeth, I clear the dishwasher from last night. He says goodbye, and Theo peeks downstairs until he is out the door. Only then will I start on chores or look at my phone. It is now 8am, the screen says, and I have an hour and a half to get some tasks out of the way before I myself start my day.
The suggestion for dedicated early mornings actually came from Mike. I’ve always been an early bird, but he likes the snooze button. Earlier this year, he came across a study that says that our learning is best the few moments before sleep and the few moments after. He suggested we both wake up when Theo signals us it’s time, and instead of slipping back under the covers, we learn something new. Being a creative person, I took that to apply to my own desires, and I broadened the term ‘learn’ to mean something more than gaining knowledge. I wanted to learn about myself through writing, I wanted to learn about the world through reading, I wanted to learn about gratitude and forgiveness through yoga, and I wanted to learn about sacrifice and love through baking.
But how to rise every day when it seems so difficult to do? I think firstly, you need a ‘why’, a reason that is strong enough to make you do what you least want to do. Secondly, you need a routine. Perhaps you need to set out the Chemex the night before, maybe you prepare the tea into bags. For baker mornings, I have my bottle of water filled to the brim sitting next to my small clutch on the dining table, and my clothes laid out in the bathroom to facilitate the dressing. For the other days, I have a cat to feed, and that love is motivation enough to get me out of bed (the incessant meowing helps too). Sometimes, it’s worthwhile to have a favorite sweater at the foot of the bed, something to slip on as you slink to the desk and open up a journal. Other times, I leave my book on the night stand, within easy reach. Whatever routine you choose, it’s a ritual that you must cherish.
Regardless of how it looks like to you, these predawn hours are for creating spaces of intention. Deliberate in everything we do, no matter how big or small. Even if it means waking up a few minutes early to sip (rather than gulp) your coffee. Even if it means opening a book before the alarm goes off for the kiddos. Or taking the dogs out on a walk to get away from the house itself. Maybe you can brave a surf, put on your baker hat, run a couple miles, work in the garden, or sit still staring out at the streets below. All of this opens you up for a more intimate life. And some days, you will feel that mid-afternoon lull. And that’s okay. These are all signs of lives well-lived, and days well-spent. Who doesn’t want to live in these golden hours?
Above: A photograph of a hike we did at Mt. Cook in New Zealand. There were so many days we left our beds before the sunrise, so many drives in the darkness as we tried to reach isolated destinations. This particular hike was one that we decided to embark on after a day of rain prevented us from seeing it the day before. We had only a few hours before we had to check out of the AirBNB, and when we got here, the trails were still empty and the people camping at the foot of the mountains were only starting to step out of their tents looking for coffee. The mist was still lingering as the sun started to shine onto the glacial snow. We had the trails almost entirely to ourselves. These are the moments I speak of.