Early Rising
I have never been one for getting up early. I'd be nauseus before 7am. The best gig of my life was when I worked as the seating hostess at a Greek restaurant. Working the lunch shift meant I had to be at the restaurant at 11a.m. I walked to work, living just four blocks away, so I could sleep until 10:45 and still be on time. Those were the days.
Last summer, however, I began to undergo an odd change. Maybe it was hormones, maybe some unconcious urge toward self-preservation, but I started waking up early. And waking up refreshed. It would be 5:30, maybe 6 a.m. and there I'd be, awake and not much inclined to lie abed. Sure, for a few days I tried willing myself back to sleep (just on principle) but that started being more effort than it was worth so I gave in and got up. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, revolutionary.
The morning routine would go something like this: out to the kitchen to boot up my computer and get coffee. Read a little poetry. Write for a while. Go work out. Then I'd come home, unload the dishwasher, start a load of laundry and maybe even do a little prep work for dinner. And then the Spouse would get up.
This was a time of revelation. Those fruitful early hours began to be necessary for a smooth running day, primarily, I think, because I was finally getting some writing done. Trying to write mid-day, even during the school year when everyone is out of the house, was too difficult. I could always distract myself. There was a load of laundry to fold or dishes to do. Maybe I'd see a cobweb waving delicately above my head so I'd get out the duster to remove it, only to realize the whole room needed a good going over which would lead me to do the rest of the house which would take me into the Child's room which clearly needed a "clean sweep" experience which would remind me that I wanted to paint a side table for her, except the side table was in the family room and required switching out three other pieces of furniture....you get the idea.
But in the early morning hours it's different. I can focus. The house is clean because no one has had a chance to mess it up yet. The phone isn't ringing and the personal emails haven't started coming in. And except for the hum of the fridge and the ocassional yap of the dog, it is quiet. Quiet is essential for me to write. I live with a noisy lot. They are charming people but they both operate with their own soundtrack. Singing, talking, making up languages, humming...constantly. Which is fine unless I'm trying to think.
Here's the thing, I didn't crawl as a baby. Pretty much went straight to walking. Turns out, though, crawling is key to concentration. Failing to develop those synapses back when I was 8 months old, I to this day am only able to concentrate on one thing at a time. Say I'm working a crossword while the Spouse is listening to "Prairie Home Companion". Garrison says something particularly witty. The Spouse says, "Did you hear that?" Either I heard it because I was listening and not really attending to the crossword or I didn't hear a thing because I was parsing a clue. I have to shut out one thing or the other. So if I'm writing and someone asks me where the melon baller is, I have to stop everything to answer the question.
This leads me to posit that Jane Austen crawled. After all, she is famously known for writing her novels while the family gamboled around her in the parlour. But I, because of the no crawling thing, am a Virginia Woolf kinda gal. I need a 'room of my own'. I dream of such a room. It has tall French windows that look out on the rue Something. There is a long writing desk, empty except for a composition book, fountain pen and, concession to the 21st century, my trusty laptop. There is a red chaise lounge where I go to find inspiration in poetry or the biographies of great writers (or a nap). But that is a someday-maybe-never room. In the meantime, I create the room I need by carving out precious time in the silence of the early morning.
The Child has arrived, announcing her intention to make breakfast (fried apples and shortcake). Good thing I got up early.
Last summer, however, I began to undergo an odd change. Maybe it was hormones, maybe some unconcious urge toward self-preservation, but I started waking up early. And waking up refreshed. It would be 5:30, maybe 6 a.m. and there I'd be, awake and not much inclined to lie abed. Sure, for a few days I tried willing myself back to sleep (just on principle) but that started being more effort than it was worth so I gave in and got up. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, revolutionary.
The morning routine would go something like this: out to the kitchen to boot up my computer and get coffee. Read a little poetry. Write for a while. Go work out. Then I'd come home, unload the dishwasher, start a load of laundry and maybe even do a little prep work for dinner. And then the Spouse would get up.
This was a time of revelation. Those fruitful early hours began to be necessary for a smooth running day, primarily, I think, because I was finally getting some writing done. Trying to write mid-day, even during the school year when everyone is out of the house, was too difficult. I could always distract myself. There was a load of laundry to fold or dishes to do. Maybe I'd see a cobweb waving delicately above my head so I'd get out the duster to remove it, only to realize the whole room needed a good going over which would lead me to do the rest of the house which would take me into the Child's room which clearly needed a "clean sweep" experience which would remind me that I wanted to paint a side table for her, except the side table was in the family room and required switching out three other pieces of furniture....you get the idea.
But in the early morning hours it's different. I can focus. The house is clean because no one has had a chance to mess it up yet. The phone isn't ringing and the personal emails haven't started coming in. And except for the hum of the fridge and the ocassional yap of the dog, it is quiet. Quiet is essential for me to write. I live with a noisy lot. They are charming people but they both operate with their own soundtrack. Singing, talking, making up languages, humming...constantly. Which is fine unless I'm trying to think.
Here's the thing, I didn't crawl as a baby. Pretty much went straight to walking. Turns out, though, crawling is key to concentration. Failing to develop those synapses back when I was 8 months old, I to this day am only able to concentrate on one thing at a time. Say I'm working a crossword while the Spouse is listening to "Prairie Home Companion". Garrison says something particularly witty. The Spouse says, "Did you hear that?" Either I heard it because I was listening and not really attending to the crossword or I didn't hear a thing because I was parsing a clue. I have to shut out one thing or the other. So if I'm writing and someone asks me where the melon baller is, I have to stop everything to answer the question.
This leads me to posit that Jane Austen crawled. After all, she is famously known for writing her novels while the family gamboled around her in the parlour. But I, because of the no crawling thing, am a Virginia Woolf kinda gal. I need a 'room of my own'. I dream of such a room. It has tall French windows that look out on the rue Something. There is a long writing desk, empty except for a composition book, fountain pen and, concession to the 21st century, my trusty laptop. There is a red chaise lounge where I go to find inspiration in poetry or the biographies of great writers (or a nap). But that is a someday-maybe-never room. In the meantime, I create the room I need by carving out precious time in the silence of the early morning.
The Child has arrived, announcing her intention to make breakfast (fried apples and shortcake). Good thing I got up early.
cobbled together by Moi at 7:53 AM
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