from freeimages.com, Garret Pruis

It was the middle of “Second Summer” in Arizona, the time of year when the kids had been back in school for well over a month, when what the rest of the world (or so it seemed) was basking in autumn leaves and pumpkin goodies, but when Arizona had simply moved from unbearable heat to barely tolerable heat. Second Summers stifled me. They sucked my energy, my disposition to do good, and any positivity I could muster up.

This particular day/night, the 4-month-old had woken up for her early morning feeding and an a-typical messy diaper. After tucking her round little body back into the crib, I opened the front door to take the smelly diaper out to the trash, and I stopped still, just beyond the front door. It was cool. Low 70s cool. I had forgotten what 70 felt like. I dropped the bag with the diaper in it and sat on the step and breathed, in and out, in and out, replacing my weariness with wonder and gratitude.

At 5:30 this morning, my 2-year-old cried out—a bad dream. She went quickly back to sleep, but I didn’t. So I slipped into my running clothes and set out. Running in the early morning hours makes me feel invisible. Enveloped by darkness, I move through the neighborhood as the houses take turns waking up, one light at a time. And always there is the sky and its subtly shifting hues of gray. It’s almost as though light is reinvented every morning.

Anything seems possible in the early morning. The temperatures could drop. The light could arrive with a pink hue instead of dusky blue. I could be the person I imagine myself to be—before yelling at my kids, before forgetting an appointment, before the craziness of the day and the focus on the task at hand dips my chin down rather than up, toward the sky.

Mary Oliver said it better than I:

Morning Poem by Mary Oliver
from Dream Work (1986)

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches —
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead —
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging —

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted —

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

As Oliver says in this poem, in the clarity and hope of the morning, I feel my prayers are heard and answered, most particularly when the thorns in my spirit lead me to end the day before barely trudging. In the Old Testament, David also seemed to find holiness in the morning: “My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning will I direct my prayer unto thee, and will look up.” (Psalms 5:3).

Do you have a time of day that is your favorite? A time when you feel more inclined to “look up”?