Morning Magic

Some of the most magical times I’ve experienced have been mornings. There’s something primitive in me that appreciates the dawning of a new day, that reassuring appearance of first light. It’s a beginning, or to indulge in redundancy, a new beginning. It’s a step into the unknown, the future that unfolds a minute at a time as we rub our eyes, sip that first cup of hot tea and open the door to feel the air and hear the sounds. Whatever came before, each morning promises a chance for something new.

The days that we spend at the lake are especially inspiring. When it’s foggy with the clouds hanging low across the mountains, I’m reminded of a morning walk in Edinburgh when we could barely see three feet ahead, but ventured into a blufftop park and met an elderly Scotsman and his “wee doggie” and heard a tale of his wartime days. We struggled to understand his accent, but reveled in his delight in telling tales.

On those mornings when we see the first pinks and lavenders of the rising run across the eastern end of the lake, I think back to mornings at the Outer Banks. Mike and I like to get up early and head out to the dune to watch the sun come up from the ocean. Before the sun breaks the horizon, the sky above the water is painted with all the glorious colors of the clouds in the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. It is spellbinding.

One of the joys of the cruises we’ve taken has been early morning walks around the deck as the ship moves through the water. The sense of adventure is heightened by the first sight of the next port as we circle the deck before breakfast, breathing in the ocean air and hearing the cries of gulls that have come out to greet the ship.  Often, we enjoy a last sight of the moon before it disappears from the sky.

Our mornings in North Carolina often begin with the musical gobbling of wild turkeys in the woods around our house. In many places, near and far, we’ve awakened to the voices of cardinals, loons, hawks and eagles, the buzzing of hummingbirds speeding around the feeder, and the chattering of squirrels. Their presence connects us to nature and to the earth, assuring us that we belong together in this world.

I remember cold mornings as a child when, snuggled in bed, I didn’t want to get up. I imagined that I would just stay there, tucked into the warmth of the quilts, forever and ever. It seems funny now that I didn’t want to yield to bedtime back then, but also resisted getting up in the morning.

I remember, too, mornings when I couldn’t rise quickly enough. Those were the days when we were going fishing with Daddy or going on vacation with the whole family. They were the days when, despite giggling late into the night with sleepover friends, we leapt out of bed in the morning to pursue whatever schemes we’d plotted the night before.

Now, though I sometimes wish for a few more minutes of sleep and stumble through the routine of getting up, dressed and out the door, I relish anew the experience of being up and about when few others are there. I cherish those first sights and sounds and the sure sense that the day ahead, whatever it brings, is mine for the living.