Talking about my time
Before the dawn.
Before the first hint of daybreak, when the air is still and the birds are still sleeping, quiet blankets our neighborhood. The newspaper is nestled in the patches of monkey grass beside the front walkway. It waits there patiently each morning, its half-hearted effort to hide from me thwarted by the honest glow that is cast by the nearby yard light. At this hour, there is not even a suggestion that this scene is playing out in the middle of a major city. There is no hum of traffic from nearby streets. No sounds of the city, or even the sounds of the suburbs. Even the dogs are still sleeping.
This is my time.
I share it only with the coffee I make, and with my still sleeping girls, though in their deepest sleep they share this time with me in blissful unawareness. But you are not intruding, because you will not read these words until day has broken and the scene I have described is gone. Gone and not to return. Until tomorrow.
But it may be different then, you say. Yes, that is true. There may be a spring shower or a blustery thunderstorm. The wind may be whipping through the trees and shrubs. Even the newspaper could have greater success in its never ending quest to hide from me. There may even be other surprises waiting for me; changes that I did not expect. Yes, each day is a new day, and each day can be different. But I will still be up early, savoring these moments.
And it will still be my time.
Before the first hint of daybreak, when the air is still and the birds are still sleeping, quiet blankets our neighborhood. The newspaper is nestled in the patches of monkey grass beside the front walkway. It waits there patiently each morning, its half-hearted effort to hide from me thwarted by the honest glow that is cast by the nearby yard light. At this hour, there is not even a suggestion that this scene is playing out in the middle of a major city. There is no hum of traffic from nearby streets. No sounds of the city, or even the sounds of the suburbs. Even the dogs are still sleeping.
This is my time.
I share it only with the coffee I make, and with my still sleeping girls, though in their deepest sleep they share this time with me in blissful unawareness. But you are not intruding, because you will not read these words until day has broken and the scene I have described is gone. Gone and not to return. Until tomorrow.
But it may be different then, you say. Yes, that is true. There may be a spring shower or a blustery thunderstorm. The wind may be whipping through the trees and shrubs. Even the newspaper could have greater success in its never ending quest to hide from me. There may even be other surprises waiting for me; changes that I did not expect. Yes, each day is a new day, and each day can be different. But I will still be up early, savoring these moments.
And it will still be my time.
Good morning Lee, I know what you are saying, by the time the family is waking up I have put in a couple of hours of work on the computer and am having a cup of coffee and reading the paper before heading out to hunt, I wouldn't trade this time of peace for anything, and yet I love it when the family is awake and at the table before school and work, have a great day Lee.
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Well Michael, I am glad to see that I am not the only person who enjoys those early morning hours. I know exactly what you mean about loving it later when the family is awake and the house is filled with laughter and fun. Even on the busy school days I take time to appreciate what is happening, because I know that all too soon these days will be gone.
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I am not a morning person, but I was up before you for most of last week due to jet lag
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That jet lag when coming this direction is brutal, Craig. It seems like I have always gotten up early. Back before we had daylight savings time, I could be seen as a barefoot boy pushing my lawnmower along the streets of our town around 5:30 a.m. on summer days. People who wanted to sleep in on Saturday mornings must have hated to have me around.
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