Honestly, I haven’t always loved the morning. My body and mind seem to move in half-time, fumbling for order with garbled words and hair and breath. And I don’t like fumbling. But these years of motherhood have taught me to appreciate the sacredness of morning, its power to give me new, to offer what is yet to be and somehow rekindle hope and promise in my chest. Enough for the day, if I’ll pay attention. Morning neatly draws the lines between past and present and future, like a metronome counting out the rhythm of time, parting me with yesterday’s success and failure and reminding me to look ahead, to receive something new, something unique for today. I am neither the first nor the last to draw attention to the sacredness of mornings. Mary Oliver describes morning as a new creation, a time of rebirth. Harriet Beecher Stowe exclaims the new day beckons us into change. The Old Testament recounts every morning contains new mercies. Over the years I have found so much hidden in those first waking hours, strength and wisdom tucked into quiet moments easily overlooked. At times, I am awake before the sun, sitting alone with a cup of coffee and pen and paper or a book or in prayer. Sometimes I make it to the gym or for a walk or run through the neighborhood. On other mornings, I share these first hours with my children, snuggling them and hearing their dream-stories, making breakfast and beginning our daily routine. On the best of mornings, I awake with the sun and my husband. Regardless of the way my morning adapts to our family, I have learned these hours are intended to nourish me for the day’s demands, for whatever might be required.
This year, I’m wanting to pay closer attention to what has become my favorite part of the day, to take notice of the wisdom and rest and promise that comes through these early hours. And to share them periodically here with you.