Friday, November 30, 2007
I'm not a morning person.
By nature, I'm the classic night owl.
I once happily sat up from 1-6 a.m. typing up a letter to a dear friend (I went through all of my old journals and compiled every entry about him, creating a chronicle of our friendship.) That seemed natural to me. I made it through several years of college without ever taking an 8:00 class. That seemed natural, too. I used to think one couldn't act truly human until sometime after 10 a.m.
But, my days of staying up late and typing till 6 a.m. came to an abrupt halt when I had children. Because children get up early, I've had to learn to get up early. And, when my children were very, very young, "getting up early" translated, for me, into "torture." They expected me to not only be awake but alive and alert and -- oh, my heavens -- to act like a good mommy. It's been an education.
And, over the years (and now that Ramona sometimes actually sleeps later in the morning) I've come to appreciate the beauty of an early rising that is accompanied by coffee and a bit of time to myself. I still don't get up at 4 a.m., like my wonderful morning-person-friend Margaret does (still staying up too late to do that) but I do love that tiny window of time in the morning, when it's just me, the coffee, and perhaps that cello on the radio that Billy Collins mentions in this poem.
by Billy Collins
Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,
then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?
This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso—
Read the rest of the poem here.
Poetry Friday is being hosted today by Two Writing Teachers.
Find the whole round-up here.