It is dark. Dark-thirty, as I have been known to call it. The back door is open, and I can hear the cicadas. The sun is still tucked away, and here I am writing to you. I have no idea why my sleep patterns have changed to awaken me at this hour every single day. I get up, go to the bathroom, make coffee, and sit in silence. No TV. No radio. Nothing but quiet stillness.
Even the birds are still sleeping. They’ll start their calls soon. I’m up before the chickens. Chickens don’t have anything on me. I am the lone up-riser in this house. I get to greet the sun every day. They’ll start their calls soon. I’m up before the chickens. Chickens don’t have anything on me. I am the lone up-riser in this house. I get to greet the sun every day.
Of course, I am going to need a nap later. So, let it also be known that I am a napper. I love a nap. Kindergarteners get them. So why can’t I? Just because I am not four years old should not imply that I cannot appreciate the rejuvenating effects of a good nap. The way I look at it, it turns one day into two. You wake up twice, and begin again. If I don’t like the way the first half of my day is going, there is always that second half. I am ever the optimist.
I tell my friends that I am Debbie of the Two Sleeps. Two sleeps used to be the reality in medieval times. People would go to bed, wake up to stoke the fire, stay up a while, and then go back to bed. I get it. The rest of my family does not.
My husband can sleep, and he is always incredulous that I have accomplished so much before he even enters the kitchen. Bills are paid. Laundry is done. I’ve swept, mopped, swiped, and shined it all before the sun comes up.
I’ve read the latest news, wished all sorts of people happy birthday on Facebook, planned my day, and by the time he gets up, it is as though we are living in separate households. I get up. He sleeps. I go down. He stays up. Our circadian rhythms are not in sync, but our love is still intact.
I tell him what he’s missed. The sky’s color as the sun rose. I tell him what creatures have ventured through the yard as he slept: the piebald deer, the twin fawns all spotted with their little white polka dots, the fox that likes to walk the back of our fence line, and the huge groundhog that owns this corner of the world. Living next to the river gives me a wildlife advantage. Everything needs a drink.
I tell him what I thought about before he rolled over. It takes a while for it to register, for he is on his first cup of coffee and I have already had my fill and switched over to sweet tea. I’ve already solved the world’s problems, while he is buttering his biscuit. I’ve already planned what is for supper, while he hasn’t thought past the creamer in his coffee. It works for us.
I don’t know if this pattern will continue now that I have retired. Maybe, maybe not. But I do know this. These early morning hours during dark-thirty have been my salvation. They have helped me navigate all that is required of me. They have given me solitude to write. They have enabled me to gently ease into my day.
They have slowed my heart rate down. They have allowed me to take deep breaths. These dark-thirty hours have brought me peace. Secretly, I hope they continue.
As daylight approaches and the birds begin to sing, I think about the ways God’s different creatures greet the world. A song, a flight, a buzzing of wings, a sauntering toward the river, a nibble of grass, a hopping from tree limb to tree limb all signify a new day. My early rising should be counted as one of those greetings. Debbie of the Two Sleeps is up. Good Morning, Sunshine!
In whatever manner your sleep patterns manifest, my hope is that they do you good. I hope you locate the moments of peace and tranquility. I hope you revel in your quietude. I hope you wish upon a star. I hope you see something that no one else sees. I hope you commune with all that is good in life.
Until next week! I have to go and sit on the back porch with my coffee. If you’re up, you can join me. We’ll wait on the deer and the groundhog.
