Morning, that most precious time of day before beginning.
When I was little, my sister and our friend would take turns setting our alarms very early. The other two would tie a string to their toe and run it out the window. Whoever was up first would have to pull the string to wake the other two; then we'd grab apples and quietly leave the house, climbing on dew-damp bikes and riding off for an early morning adventure in the woods. As we rode down the empty streets the only car we ever passed was the odd person coming home from working late shift in the car factory. The face inside the car looked tired and shut down, and I didn't ever want to feel that woodenly adult.
I've never been a lay-abed in the mornings, except for the years I struggled with the never-ending postpartum depression. Those years I could hardly drag myself out of bed, and wondered, when I was awake, if I would ever be the person I'd been before, one who got up to start another wonderful day as soon as her eyes opened. I look back at those years--I've described them as three years falling down a hole--and lament all the mornings, all the moments I missed.
Of course, even though the depression's over, I'm not the person I was before--could never be her again--but I'm someone beyond her, a synthesis and result of all that's gone before--and I do wake early and climb right out of bed. If I'm lucky, I'm the first one up and I can silently make a cup of tea and sit at the kitchen table and look at the mountains or, even better, sneak out to the studio for a peaceful hour before the world awakens.