The Magic of Early Morning

Something about early morning makes it especially powerful as a time for contemplation. Partly it’s that nature can make her presence known—or more accurately, we can hear her calling more easily. Human sounds have not yet stirred to distract or drive away the more wild or rare thoughts that might come to consciousness, like a bird offering its waking song or a fox making a tentative foray from the forest’s edge. The sun slants with softer light, eschewing the hardness of its later-day obvious heat for a subtler suggestion of beginning. Maybe a fog or a chill begins to lift, letting us emerge slowly from our physical and mental slumbers as well. As the world around us comes to life, we to gain a sense of possibility and renewal.[1]

When we first rise—even if it’s not particularly early—we’re also still treading in that magical land between sleep and waking. Our dreams may have brought friends or fantasies that could speak more clearly. We gain access to creativity and insight that, like the delicate stars that disappear from view in a daytime sky even though they’re still there, we simply cannot contact in the stir and hubbub of normal hours. I have always harvested my best ideas upon waking—for speeches, for projects, for new approaches to relationship challenges.

Somehow, speaking usually breaks the spell. As soon as words cross my mouth or enter my ears, the dreams and their wild insights fall away, fading to soft, indistinguishable echoes. I can remember talking to somewhere with somebody about something, but the detail is gone, the specific wonder reduced to tame vagueness. A simple whisper can often preserve the mood because it still honors the reverence of the moment. I wouldn’t barge full-voiced into a temples, church, or funeral, for example. Still, it seems that even quiet words initiate or hasten the re-veiling.

For reasons I can’t yet articulate, I also find that interacting with technology or electronics, even without speaking aloud, does the same. A bright, overhead light drives something away that candlelight or a soft bedside lamp does not. Meditation takes a different tone—fuzzier and less connected—if I’ve checked my e-mail, listened to voice messages, or read any news online. All those devices, as I’ve written before, pull me to a more frenzied, more addictive way of interacting even if I don’t want them to. I step out of quiet timelessness into urgent immediacy. Yoga, swimming, or non-verbal (or at least low-verbal) walks outside—all activities without machines or electricity—allow me to loosen my muscles at that same gentler pace that I’m stretching out my mind.[2]

Maybe the gift of early morning comes most in the chance for self-reflection. Cell phones, computers, and unconscious conversations all magnetize us toward someone else’s chatter. Whether through the animal wisdom of nature or the spirit world of dreams, the quiet of dawn taps into a deeper vein, returning with touchstones that then pulse steady reminders through the remaining hours of the day. We are larger than our agendas and busy-ness. We are wiser than our words. We are more than our failures or difficulties. Buoyed by those first moments of early light, we become our fullest, most radiant selves.