I love being up early. I find sunrises inspiring. I mine much more out of my day when I get an early start. There is a catch, however. I don’t like waking up. Being up is great; I love being up early. But waking up early is a chore—especially if I haven’t slept well or long enough. I have to peel myself from my bed. I have to let the tiredness slowly drain from my eyes. I have to wait for the dreamy fog in my head to dissipate before I can think straight.
Waking up early is like cutting a fingernail too short. It feels unpleasant at first, but eventually you no longer notice the discomfort. If I can resist the urge to ease back under the covers and await a new dream—if I can put my feet to the floor—getting up early is always worth it to me.
Even in my highly populated city, I can have vast expanses of space to myself at daybreak. I can sense that few other souls are awake. Most of the masses are still tucked away. It is a quieter time. The soft sounds of nature play uninterrupted by human noise. The air smells fresh.
There is something sacred in the atmosphere at dawn. It is a privilege to see the sun slide up into the horizon—pulling delicately strong colors across the sky—erasing the darkness and subduing the night.
I would like to see more sunrises, but sleeping past dawn is so easy to do. Early mornings are like secrets shared by a select few. They are the colorful clandestine hours so many of us slumber through.