In The Quiet Hour

 I don't know what to write about. I don't want to write. Why did I ever start trying to post once a week? I hate the list of topics I have to write about. Why did I ever think people would actually be interested in me and my uneventful life? 

I'm sitting on a dam just outside a small town situated between my sister's place and our place. It's 6:45 am. An occasional vehicle crunches by. The gulls lined up on the yellow bouys are waking up and calling to each other. Off in the distance I hear the rush of the dam water as it falls into it's new rushing existence. It's a foggy morning.  I can only see about a quarter of a mile in any direction. The lake before me stretches out until it blends into the fog and seems to reach up to meet the sky, curving above me in that bluish grey color and falling seamlessly into the marsh behind me, obscuring any view of the town. A lone paddler slips his kayak into the lake and glides silently into the fog almost before I notice him.

I used to think I was a night owl. I used to think I liked to read and sew and do who knows what til all hours of the night. I loved the night sky, I'd sit and stare at the stars for long minutes at a time. I hated mornings and 8:00 am was too early for me. Somewhere along the line I changed. I imagine it was due to a few different circumstances. Half of last year breakfast was at 8:00 sharp and often a girl had to be down by 6 or shortly thereafter to watch Children or get them off to school. Or if I didn't have that duty I'd be rudely wakened from my sleeping reverie by someone yelling 'Dirty diaper second nurse' and I'd have to scurry out of bed at 7:00 to go change a diaper. And then when I came home I launched into a busy life with a job and little siblings around a lot of the time and to get everything done or even have time to myself I had to get up earlier. And I started loving it. I started loving the quietness, the aloneness, the peacefulness. That hour or so when people are up and even heading to work, but not really awake. I get that feeling that I'm the only person in the world. Just me, the birds and insects, and God.

It's almost a powerful feeling. To be all alone where hundreds of others pass by during the day. To hear the birds and crickets and know you are the only person hearing those exact sounds right now. To watch that last little bit of sunrise on a new morning and know that while the day ahead of you might become riddled with mistakes and worries, right now you have a fresh start. A new day that will maybe become the favorite of your past week or month.

 I wish I could explain my feelings and thoughts about mornings in a way that would make you want to try it once. I wish I could explain mornings in a way that would make you see the wonder and splendour of them. I tried, but when I started waxing poetic, suddenly i was writing in run-in sentences about dirty diapers which is decidedly not poetic. So if somehow my unpoetic prose has inspired you to get out of bed earlier some morning, I will be thankful at least one person took my advice. If this inspires no-one, then I shall be thankful I'll be able to keep my mornings and their quiet musings to myself.