On Waking

This morning, I woke up for the first time in a very long time at 6am. I wish that I could tell you, Reader, that I was graceful in doing so, that my hair was perfectly coiffed, and that my night-time socks were still on my feet, but I cannot lie to you. Somehow in the torrents of the night, my pajamas twist around so that they are practically on backward, my hair looks like it has done by an over confident six year old, and I have a perfect graveyard of lost socks at the foot of my bed.

There is a love-hate relationship between me and the early morning hours. I love the serenity of the morning- the peace, the tranquility, and the time spent getting ready for the day. Whenever I do wake at the blessed and cursed 6am hour, I feel as though I am more prepared for the day and that I achieve more. The morning sky is something that I like to relish in before really getting a move on in my day. I love the pastel hues jutting across the sky, the fading twinkles of the night stars, and the perfect stillness.

Perhaps this is just another life lesson hidden in the mess of this crazy, beautiful thing called life. Perhaps waking up early signifies the difficult situations in our life and the beautiful mornings represent the beauty that is born out of our pain. I would rather romanticize the entire idea of waking early than live amidst the stuffy confines of realism. If my head were designed to be closer to ground level, then God would have made me a great deal shorter.

As much as I may detest my alarm clock, best demonstrated by my stomping across my tiny bedroom to shut off its abrasive squawking, I owe it a favor in allowing  me to see this morning in its best light, for allowing me to spend a little time writing and reflecting, for the time I spent sipping freshly brewed coffee and musing about the endless possibilities of the day.

Oh, what possibilities there are!

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