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I pinch my eyes awake, the heavy darkness still sits as a blanket over the sky. I glance out at the window, my vision a blur and see a very bright orb casting light across the pillows. I suspect it’s the neighbours motion sensor light. It’s not. It’s a full moon sitting low in the sky. It’s just before six a.m. I pull the covers over and let sleep drag me back.
Just after seven a.m., my alarm chimes. After scrambling to turn it off, I gather the duvet around me. I have nine minutes of quiet before it vibrates again. The moonlight outside had faded, and I can sense the cold envelope the room around me. I think of summer. I think of the mornings I claw back when I roll awake at five a.m., ready to start the day, the sunlight pushing its way through the slits in the blinds.
After a few short minutes, I rise and slip on the many layers needed to fend off the cold, looking much like the Michelin man. I begin my quiet descent down the stairs, careful to step around the third and seventh step that creaks. Everybody is asleep, they should be for couple more hours, except one of the dogs. She greets me at the living room door, her ears tucked low and she nudges her way under my arm as I tie my shoes.
The frost outside has blanketed the driveway, it’s nippy out and I dip my head low into my scarf, using my breath to warm my face. In the distance, a blurred sunrise begins to take hold of the sky, the silent neighbourhood: all mine to enjoy, for now.
While I enjoy spending time with my family, the mornings to myself are my favourite; it’s really the only time of the day I am unbothered by anybody, before my mother shuffles down to ask me where her glasses have gone for the upteenth time or my father calling out for the dogs to get in the car, the stomping and bashing of doors as they all tumble to get through the narrow door frame. Silence is broken and noise commences until the late evening.
It’s an odd feeling to be the only early-bird in the family. My parents are late risers, late sleepers. The concept of relaxation is familiar to them, but unheard of for me. No matter if the day ahead is busy or completely open-ended, I’m so rarely still in bed past eight a.m.. I can’t tether the thought of wasting hours lying there, a habit that I’m sure I’ll regret when I have children and sleep will be robbed from me entirely.
I used to envy people who could sleep endlessly for hours, how their bodies could remain furled in like a fetus or stretched out like a starfish, minds’ asleep. I would be the first awake at sleepovers, staring at the ceiling wondering when we could start the day. But now I’ve come to savour the quiet solace I’m given, a handful of hours that so few are around to see.
I step outside. In the cold, I shiver and pull my coat around me tighter — my frosty breath stretching out before me in the dark. You’re suppose to take ten thousand steps a day and, on the days I don’t make it to the gym, I try to start it with a walk. Most days I don’t if I’m honest, but if the sky is blue when I wake up, I feel better about the chill and make more of an effort. My legs remain stiff and I speed walk around the neighbourhood to warm up. Everything is blue, pale and bare, naked little tree arms point to the skies.
My body has warmed now, I’m back home and the house remains quiet. It’s just past eight and I continue to make use of the stolen time that I have. It’s a familiar action — waking up early, brewing a cup of coffee and settling down at the kitchen counter, while the dog remains at my feet. I’ve written a lot Substacks from here, ideas form on the walk and brief notes are jotted down. Writing demands quietude and much of that is sporadically done between sprints of work and cups of coffee.
I am a proud morning person through and through and it’s difficult to find another who is willing to rise with the sun and seek adventure in the city. I’m fortunate that B, begrudgingly, will often be my partner in crime for those moments.
I hear stirring upstairs, the yawning of the pipes as water makes it way to the upstairs bathroom. My father is awake, my mother shortly after. For now, I have only have a handful more minutes till quietness is completely disturbed. Until tomorrow.
When my sister Ellen began to do sleep research, she informed me that I was a classic lark - a morning person, same as you. Ellen, my mother, and my cousin Ginny were all owls - night people. It enabled Ginny to work nights as a nurse in a hospital without a bother; Ellen stayed up all night evaluating brain waves. When Ginny's wedding day rolled around, she was still in bed at 10:30 am when she was to be married at noon! Her bridesmaids had to drag her out of bed. I like living as a lark and could not imagine sleeping late!
Your writing is lovely 🩷