It wasn’t too long ago and yet I feel like there have been a couple of lifetimes shoved in between then and now. Still, I remember being in high school, waking up with the sun and sitting on the back patio with my gigantic cup of coffee and journal and pen that I most often times wouldn’t even pick up. I’d just sit there and stare into our somewhat-triangle-shaped backyard, adorned with red ginger plants and a malnourished willow tree. Sitting here on my couch now, six, seven, eight years later and over 4,000 miles away from that wooden picnic table, I can still recall and almost feel the shifting chill of night to the warm tropical air. It was almost like the warming of one’s heart when they hear of someone doing a thoughtful or heroic deed, or like the warming of my heart when I hear “Proud to be an American.” It was almost like that but a heartwarming experience for the soul.
Fast forward to my junior year of college and my wooden picnic table is now my rooftop in México and my Kirkland brand coffee is now Nescafe Clasico Instant Coffee. And with tacky Christmas mug in hand, I can remember sitting out there for every sunrise, watching the sky turn from midnight blue to purple to pink to orange to light like watercolors seamlessly swept over canvas. A masterful oeuvre of one color scheme and yet each sunrise unique and positively breathtaking with every colorful transition. I would sit out there and with the birds on the nearby telephone lines, we would watch from our front row seats the sensation that is the start of another day.
Throw a couple of monumental life events into the mix, and I find myself in the city that, according to the maxim, never sleeps. In actuality, though, I know when it sleeps. The delivery and coffee-and-bagel cart and graveyard shift MTA guys know too, and that is during my commute. Now, it may seem early for most, but I happen to love the city in the wee hours of the morning. It is so calm and peaceful and, yes, I’m still talking about New York. Everyone is so much friendlier. Perhaps it’s because they’re not fully awake or the stress of the day hasn’t gotten to them yet or because everyone is able to get a seat on the subway. Or maybe it’s because we’re all secretly a part of an exclusive early bird club that gets to witness the city without its makeup on, not to mention jaywalk when and where we please. Or maybe it’s just me. Either way, I love the city in the mornings, and I don’t want to forget this feeling.
Because as the sun sets on this chapter of life and the “What are you going to do in the fall?” questions begin to turn up in bulk, I don’t have a lot of answers. When do I ever? After all, trying to determine what my next year will look like is like trying to predict the weather for the third week of August. No clue. Nevertheless, I know that I want sunrises to be in there. So really, all these pretty recollections are actually reminders to me, to my future self, that morning times are imperative for my life. They are glorious and sacred and early, but they are necessary. And I love them.
Malia, you love them. More than your fluffy purple comforter. More than your snooze button. More than your lazy self. You love waking up early. The end. And. Or. The beginning of another beautiful year of morning time mysteries and marvels.
