mornings

It was always a prize to be the first one into the living room in the morning and get to claim the cushy green armchair that the sun warmed as it rose over the ocean. I was never the first one awake—that was always Grandpa, who by 7 a.m. might have on his hardhat or a pair of work gloves, might be peddling his bicycle up to Wilbur's to get the paper, might be doing a crossword puzzle at the dining room table. But I liked to be the first one into that chair and with a book, so I could spread my knees into the soft armrests and sink down into the cushion as I read. Eventually a parent might come into the room and stake out a spot on the sofa; a sibling or cousin might sprawl across the carpet; and by the time Grandma was in the kitchen fussing over breakfast at 8:30 or 9, we'd all be reading something, easing ourselves into the day in peaceful quiet.

Mornings elsewhere haven't always been quite the bliss of that. At home, we got up for school before sunrise and often drove there in the growing light. Once a week I had to make morning basketball practice, which meant I was in the gym and on the court before I'd normally even be out of bed. And on weekends at home, I usually slept in. Once I got to college, my weekday waking hour got significantly later, so it was something I took note of when I had a rare occasion to be out and about on the early side.

I distinctly remember an odd morning when I trekked through Harvard Square wearing hiking boots and a backpacking backpack, leading a group of freshmen to a bus we'd take to New Hampshire for their orientation trip. It was strange, for sure, to be carrying all that camping equipment through the middle of the city; but more so, what struck me as so notable at the time was the life that existed in the square at that hour—about 7 a.m. Unlike the afternoons and evenings, the streets weren't bustling; only here or there did a car drive past; only one or two at a time did pedestrians go by. But there were people out. And most moved slowly, carrying coffee or a brief case and seeming to be enjoying the bright sun and warm air. Was it just my imagination, I wondered, or was this the happiest time of day in the square?

A year later, I spent a month of summer in Honduras at archaeology field school. Unlike other archaeology students, we didn't have to sleep in tents out in the desert; instead, we stayed at a very basic but four-star hotel called La Madrugada (the dawn). When I was in the hotel and not busy having face-offs with rhinoceros beetles in the hallway or competing with geckos for use of the shower, I'd often be found hanging in a hammock near the patio that positively dripped with plants. I'd be listening to the brook that ran below the patio, or the old man who sang to the plants as he touched each leaf with wet fingers, or just daydreaming. I never did get to hang there long, as we were out in the ruins, digging or learning the world of the ancient Maya, pretty early. But it was a pleasure to grab even five minutes in one of the hammocks on that patio that faced the sunrise. It was quite the good way to start a day.

In my adult life, mornings have largely been dictated by commuting to work. I used to love having 30 minutes to myself in the car, listening to, possibly singing along to, certain music that I deemed either good for driving or good for morning uplift. It was a transitional 30 minutes, getting me comfortably from the world of sleep to the fast-paced world of work, and I enjoyed not having to do any thinking during that time. I'd just enjoy the fields and woods I drove alongside, later the winding path of the Charles River. I'd watch the sky, look for birds, take stimulation from the unfolding surroundings in order to fully awaken myself.

Having that time in the morning is something I've greatly missed while working at home for the last three years. Here I roll out of bed and into the shower; then I find myself somehow transported the very short distance to the kitchen all too quickly. Before I know it, I'm eating my cereal and opening my work email. I haven't been anywhere, done anything else. I have arisen to go directly to work. And yesterday, when instead the first thing I did in the day was drop my car off at the mechanic and then walk home on what would prove to be one of the warmest days of the year here, you can imagine that I really enjoyed the 10 minutes of transit.

As with Harvard Square, there is a different life to Noe Valley in the morning than the one I usually see. The park around the corner is quiet; maybe a dog plays, maybe a baby swings, but there aren't 50 of each yet; there aren't 50 sets of parents and owners filling the place with chatter. At the corner, the bus stop is full, rather than empty. And at the top of the hill, as I turn back to look at the east bay in the clear light that we've been missing with all the fires going on, there is a breeze and a richness of daylight that coincide to feel like the blustery wind of a morning at my favorite beach back east. That that temperature and that bit of moisture in the air are always here in San Francisco is not the point; that I don't very often get outside to experience them when the sun is at just that angle is what really struck me. Mornings, I have always thought, are a time for slowly coming forth, slowly brightening; perhaps in the new life I will settle into next week, I'll remember to enjoy them more; to let them, before I rush through them, just become.