The day is at its newest in its first daylight hour.
I am unable to sleep past 4:30 AM. I am awake with my first swig of cool water from the bottle on the nightstand and on my feet, my legs shaking off the stiffness that comes with age.
After the necessary ablutions, the next couple of hours are all routine; a hot cup of tea, a morning stretch, prayer and meditation. By the time I am done, the light of a new day creeps through the tops of the trees I view through my windows. It is my cue to go out to the garden.
My morning trip outside is more unstructured; sometimes it begins with a thorough watering of the raised beds and flower boxes, other times it is a walk-through inspection, and still other times I carry out a basket of freshly washed laundry to hang to dry before the heat of the day becomes too intense. Summers are for clothes hung on a line, left to rise and fall in the warm breeze.
The world is just starting to wake; intermittent traffic sounds of a few cars whooshing by the neighborhood begin and the roar of a trash truck making its way up the block, yet I can still hear my own breath, the echoes of my own thoughts. There is not enough noise in this moment to drown out the peace and quiet that is big and new, and sadly, fleeting.
The usual visitors always stop by to say "Good Morning". First, there is Fella, an American Shorthair who is dressed in his gruffy tuxedo coat. He sometimes sleeps in my strawberry bed, and scampers away at the first sign of me. Next, there is Skippy, who loves to hang out in the tree above the hammock. I prepare small cuts of fruit and vegetables for him so that he is able to easily find food that is safe and healthy for him to eat, and he grabs pieces to carry into the tree to enjoy. I am sometimes greeted by the Great Dane who looks over the fence and barks at me. He isn't a vicious dog. Just lonely and needing affection.
As I stroll about the landscape, I admire the blooming flowers and the colorful little fairy homes tucked away in corners of the yard. Staring at the colorful little dwellings makes me imagine who might live in such a house; a tooth fairy who is also a dentist, the wise librarian who manages books on building bridges, herding grasshoppers or legends of giants who make the rain come and go, or the shopkeeper who runs the general store...there is a whole world of fantasy hiding in the bushes of my garden.
Taking tea in the greenhouse is the best way to bring my Golden Hour rituals to a close. A hot cuppa, steeping a favorite brew of ginger turmeric or lemon hibiscus helps to balance my system as I sip and listen to the early morning jazz show on the speaker tucked away on the shelf. The volume is low enough for my ears only, the music a perfect backdrop for the rising sun, painting everything in warm, deep ambers and oranges. Light dapples through the windows, creating shadows through the leaves of the seedlings rising from the starter trays. I mark dates in my gardening journal for when to transplant these newcomers into the raised beds, the steam from my cup ascending in winding curls into the air.
Light becomes morning that will soon turn into day, the temperature no longer cool. It is time to move on with my day.
Like an unopened package of a thing most anticipated, most special, the Golden Hour morning is the moment when the seal has just been broken, the contents within unspoiled. You are the only one to witness the unfolding of all of its beauty; the new songs of the birds, the smell of breakfasts being prepared, and the coolness of the freshly watered grass beneath your feet, all while the deep, rich yellow light bathes the scene before your eyes. It is a blessing to witness a new day, fresh with hope and promise of great possibilities that are within reach. We can be the authors of our own story for the next 24 hours.
Have you ever awaken to welcome the new day during the Golden Hour? What is your early morning routine?
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