In the years since developing post concussion syndrome and seeking oxygen treatment for it (which works for me, BTW) my early mornings have gone from 5 am to 3 am. No idea why. The internal alarm clock just goes off and says GTHOOB (Get the Hell Out of Bed) whether I like it or not. Normally I do, as I have accommodated — one must- at the other end. It’s a rare night I’m up past eight. So when the peepers pop open and the inevitable tidal wave of the coming day begs me forward I happily leap out of bed and get going. That if course is damned dangerous in and of itself, as I sleep on an elevated four poster, made higher by four down mattresses, and even higher by several down comforters. As one wag pointed out once, if a guy wanted to sleep with me, he needed to be highly motivated. Happily mine is. Unhappily, one evening after our exertions he missed that critical first step. I watched in a combination of horror and humor as 220 lbs of solid muscular man flesh flipped over neatly, those little white ankle socks he loves wearing to bed whizzing by my nose, to be followed by a resounding crash as said meat package met my hardwood floor.
I later installed those grainy things you put on slick wood steps, since I have a set of library steps next to the bed (for said highly-motivated man). He’s more thoughtful now, although that isn’t typical of him post exertion since no blood exists in the male cranium. I have offered to purchase a walker. Since he’s 16 years younger than I am, he demurred. Pride goeth before a fall, as it were.
That story aside it’s one hell of a long way down. I mind the steps myself, having lived there for twelve years, and damned near doing the same thing myself. It will sure as hell wake you up better than the Sun Salute, although vastly more painful.
Mornings between 3 and 5 are purely magical. Bereft of the sounds of human comings and goings but for the odd night shift worker, it’s the time of faeries, magic, and movement of all things that go gently bump in the night. Never is there better time to write, as so many ideas float about in the air like flotsam, waiting to be selected, as Mozart used to describe his tunes. Like low-hanging fruit. The promise of the day is still a ways off. In the precious perfect silence we get to ponder what noise and busy-ness wash away..ideas, for one. As you say, gratitude for being. The wondrous weight of being human and all that means in the time we have. Or don’t have, as it were. My time of day, like sunset on a summer afternoon, with that odd greying half light of heavy clouds causing the day to go oddly off in its coloring, a moment of pure inexplicable joy.
In a world where you can hardly go to the bathroom or fill your car with gas without being harangued by ads, early mornings are the best if we want to explore the inner chambers of our minds, our hearts and our hopes.