I am an early riser. It is a habit formed as a child, having grown up on a farm, where chores had to be done before the “normal” day began. That habit has served me well throughout my sixty-plus years. It helped me get to school on time. It helped me graduate from college, completing all course requirements by attending those dreaded 7 a.m. classes no one else wanted. It prepared me for motherhood and those early morning feedings and diaper changes.
And it got me to work on time for over 30 years. I was only late once, and then not because I overslept. I got the car stuck in several feet of snow trying to navigate out our lengthy driveway. I am not particularly efficient shoveling snow with a dust pan left in the trunk of the car.
I have never had to set an alarm. My internal clock goes off about 4 a.m. each morning, and regardless of how hard I try, I seldom return to bed and back to the land of nod. One would think that warm blankets would win over a cold house every morning, but my life rhythm wins each time. Who could possibly choose to miss the breaking of dawn over this glorious valley or the feeling of renewal that each day brings?
I plug in the percolator that Flip prepared the night before and wait for the aroma of coffee to fill the kitchen. The older I get, the lighter the brew, having evolved from a deep brunette to blonde over the last decade. I guess the coffee matches my ever lightening hair, once dishwater blonde, now white as the aging sheets in my linen closet.
This natural color transformation of my tresses, thanks to advancing age, was even noticed by one of the younger grandchildren. After attending a summer art camp for toddlers, four year old Aya announced “Meema’s hair has no color. It is white, and white is, in fact, the absence of color.” That is precisely how this four year old speaks. Fortunately she did not comment on how much thinner my hair had grown, yet another side effect of aging and genetics.
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With a steaming mug of barely blonde coffee in hand, I slip into the well-worn chair by the northern wall of windows and wait for the morning sun to lift the valley shadows. This summer of wildfires has made our sunsets spectacular, but they pale in comparison to the subdued pastel pinks and oranges of sunrise.
It is meditation for my mind. I am at peace. I can let the sights, sounds and aroma of dawn wash over me. It lifts the fog that sleep sometimes leaves behind. I begin to plan for the day. Put pen to paper to make the seemingly endless lists that make up my life. The lists that keep me from meandering through life when I need to move forward, or allow me to follow a whim when circumstances allow.
This is the best time to slip outside, pinch the flower heads and pull a few weeds. I can smell the freshness of a new morning. I can see that glorious super moon and the rising sun at the same time. I can ponder momentous questions, “Why is the dampness from morning dew refreshing to my toes when the drops from the sprinkler are simply irritating?
Some folks have garden beds, I have mere cots, little shelves of soil on top of rock walls with succulents clinging tenuously to their perch. In the early morning they have dazzling drops of dew sprinkled on petals and leaves. As the sun catches these dew drops it sends rainbow shards across the grass. Who would want to miss this glorious show by staying in bed? Not I. Although I must remember that during the harvest months the orchard surrounding our home is filled with workers in these early morning hours. They may not appreciate the picture I paint in my tattered night shirt, sockless tennis shoes and far too much posterior exposed as I pull at some tenacious thistles.
As the morning sun crests the east hills and penetrates the pond’s depths I grab a few handfuls of fish food and sprinkle it across the water. Brilliantly colored koi boil to the surface, flashes of orange, gold, red and yellow chasing the floating pellets. It is a churning kaleidoscope of color. As fall gives way to the cold of winter I will stop feeding the koi and they will stay near the pond’s bottom. The iridescence of the koi feeding against the brilliant morning sun will be hidden until the water has warmed once again in the spring and they can return to the surface for our morning ritual.
I listen to the cawing conversation of the crows and the brrrring of the tiny hummingbird wings as they return to the ruby feeder on the deck rail. A mother doe bleats quietly to her two spotless fawns as they walk by unconstrained by my presence, willing to share daybreak with me without batting a luscious eyelash. On rare occasions I have heard the hoot of the barn owl and watched her swoop off to the rafters of the ancient metal shed, her nights hunt complete.
I am content that this habit of rising early and enjoying daybreak has kept me in good stead throughout my life. Two additional hours each day adds a month of life experiences each year. By gosh I will have added twenty years to my life by the time I am seventy simply getting up at 4:00 each morning.
And my grandkids thought I couldn’t do the “new math.”
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