Early One Morning
The older I get, the earlier I rise
It’s 4:10 a.m. I’m not dreaming. I’m not restless. I’m awake and I’m happy about it.
Coffee tastes better at this hour. Made on the stovetop. Sunlight this early at this time of year is not far away, but it’s still dark. And the air has a depth about it. Not thick or heavy, but substantial. Meaningful.
I stand at the kitchen window and listen. The birds are already busy. They chirp, but they hide somewhere in the trees. There’s no breeze, but there’s a sense of movement. It’s the world, turning.
For over a year now, I’ve found myself awake at this hour. Rested and alive. Some mornings I head to my shed, light a small kerosene lamp, and meditate or write a few lines—a small poem, or a few words of a story or essay. But mostly I just . . . be.
They tell you when you get older that you need less sleep. I’m not certain about that, but I do know this aging man finds himself rising early most days now. Whether it’s the metabolism changes or body rhythms, or something else, it’s clearly now my way of facing the day.
After some time at the window, I step outside, refusing to let the dog out yet, even though she stands at the door. Too early, I say. There are skunks. We have them in the neighborhood. Skunks and dogs don’t mix. I’ll be back, I tell her, and walk barefoot to the shed, feet on damp grass. Inside, I light the lamp and a candle and sit at the desk. There’s an old manual typewriter there and I peck out a few lines of whatever comes to mind, a kind of stream of consciousness poem, or stream of experience, maybe. The click-click is a kind of music. What I write is not meant to be good. It just is. Something to let the night out of my body, release the build-up of dreams inside a beautiful aloneness. Sam Shepard—the writer, playwright, and actor—described how he was certain that aloneness was a necessity to produce good creative work, especially writing. I think of that now. But no pressure.
There have been and are plenty of creatives who love the early day. Certainly, we hear a lot about “successful” people who rise early to workout, to face emails, to connect with overseas associates, to be ahead of the rest. But those I find myself aligned with are of a different breed.
Frank Lloyd Wright was said to have studied his designs and dreamed of his creations in the hours between 4 and 7 o’clock in the morning. He said it was when his mind was clearest. Georgia O’Keefe said in an interview that she liked the world best with nobody in it. That meant early mornings making tea and building a fire, then resting in bed to watch the dawn. Irish novelist Edna O’Brien says she works in the morning because “one is nearer to the unconscious,” where she says she gets her inspiration. Toni Morrison gets up before the sun simply to watch it arrive. Haruki Murakami gets up at 4 a.m. and writes for several hours. Other early risers—Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, Frances Trollope.
Nice company to be in.
Through the window at my desk, light has now arrived. Just enough. The lamp is no longer needed, but I keep the candle burning. I am healed in this light. But I know the healing began before, in those dark hours. Still, it’s healing, nonetheless. It’s as if the mind and the body’s cells have been given new oxygen. I read somewhere about how the early hours are a spiritual time. I’m aware of that now. But as daybreak comes, I am melancholy, that momentary sadness that comes when you say goodbye. This time is full of mystical powers, and I like sitting in it. But I also know that the specialness comes with its fleeting nature. Anything that is this powerful cannot be ongoing. The magic would burn itself out.
Closing the shed door behind me, the music of morning is all around me now in the fresh sun—birds in full song, a squirrel squeaks, a dog barks. I hear the garbage collector’s truck and a distant train. And across the lawn, at the rear glass storm door, is my dog, resting, waiting. She knows where I’ve been. I open the door for her. “Come on, girl,” I say. “It’s a new day.”
David W. Berner is the author of several books of personal narrative and fiction, including the upcoming memoir from Collective Ink, UK, Daylight Saving Time.