Quiet mornings

There comes a time in the evening when I just want it to be the next morning. Just skip all the mundane getting-ready-for-bed habits, skip sleeping, and wake rested anticipating the day ahead.

One reason I’m a “morning person” is because I absolutely love getting up right before the sun. I love watching the colors fill the sky and experiencing the world when it’s still quiet.

I love the first sip of hot coffee, the quiet contemplation. After a long night of sleep, and sometimes anxious thoughts racing, my mind is calm.

I love coming down the creaky stairs to a clean and sleepy kitchen, to the intentional ambient light I left on overnight.

No one else is awake yet, it’s just me.

My husband is asleep, the dog has stirred but she’s quiet. She’s patient, and she must know that this is my favorite part of the day.

This is the opportunity for me to believe that it will be a good day. That I’ll get through it without any big swings of emotion, or bouts of depression, or hours spent frozen, sitting and thinking about wanting to know what I want to do.

When our old girl Missy was alive, I distinctly remember a few times when she slept sandwiched between us (it wasn’t often at that point, her achy bones didn’t let her jump up much towards the end) and I would wake up before them and just listen to their breathing, a rhythm of its own.

There was a perfect moment then, when I realized that all was well. I was so incredibly present in that moment. I thought to myself, “We’re all here, we’re all alive and well. This is a moment I will want to look back on.”

And I did. Missy died, my heart was ripped out, but that memory came back to me in the acute grief that followed.

I remembered that time, wanting it back, wanting to be there just for that few minutes before my husband would wake up.

But it was gone.

But that’s why I love early, dark, quiet mornings so much. They remind me of how perfect life can be, if only for a fleeting moment.