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“Morning brings back the heroic ages. There was something cosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till forbidden, of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world. The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden

The alarms rings. I am not jumping out of bed, but lingering in the cradle of my pillow. Glancing at the time,  I have a few minutes before I really need to wake up. The clock hits 5:30 a.m. That is my signal. Some mornings I lace up my tennis shoes and head out for a run. Other mornings I brew a cup of coffee, head to my office, and begin writing. My daughter isn’t clamoring for breakfast or asking questions about how the day will unfold.

I hug this morning hour tight, careful for it not to escape my grasp. It is how I dip my self in solitude and the freshness of what the day may bring. There are jagged edges to some mornings. My run outside might take a tentative pace and my breath will feel uneven. Pain may creep up in my legs and gravitate toward my shins. I push through. Silent encouragement comes from another runner that intersects on my path. A smile that says, “You too.” The sun rises, casting its net around the sand, cactus trees, and slivers of light fall on my arms. As I round the corner near our home, I sigh deep and look up. The sky is light blue with no trace of cloud. I look up and am thankful that I could corral a few moments.

The same may happen if I decide to write instead of run on certain mornings. The blank page is a welcome or awful sight. Sometimes I might possess an idea and the words spill out. Other times, I start typing and then hit delete. And then start over again. When I am finished with my scheduled writing in the morning, I refrain from judging (although it is hard) what’s written. Revisions will come later.

Why are my mornings so sacred? It is my attempt to shut out the noise of what may happen during the day. The unexpected always slithers into the crevices. Some of this may channel feelings of frustration, discontent and discomfort. I might find my voice gets swallowed. But the knowledge that I will return to silence the next morning keeps irritation on the periphery.

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