I am not a morning person. I desperately want to be. Deep down in my chronobiology I’m a night-owl/snooze button/can’t-keep-my-eyes-open-at-3p.m.-but-will-read-until-3a.m. gal. I’ve tried to change this to no avail—it’s my factory default mode. I relish those few days after autumn time change or returning from any UK/EU travel when my inner clock is set to hours earlier, so I awaken refreshed at what my body would normally consider sleepy time.
This early rising isn’t so much about squeezing a few more hours into my day, that’s part of it, but mostly I’m seeking the enchanted ritual of sunrise.
I have nothing against sunsets. I love them just as much, but they lack the intimacy of sunrises. Sunsets are social and public activities, the reward or byproduct of good timing coupled with the grace of perfect skies.
There’s something magical and intimate about a sunrise. You awaken in the dark, the mystery of night still clinging to the world. You set forth into your day shrouded in darkness and its attendant silence yet comforted by the familiarity of your ritual and the knowledge that light will soon blossom. It’s easy to feel pleasantly alone in this liminal space. Even a moonless sky cannot hide the promise of a fresh new day, the previous day’s vexations tucked away in shadows.
At some point in your morning routine, maybe between the drinking of the tea and the brushing of the teeth, or after the meditating and shower, but before lunch making, you notice the absence of complete darkness. It’s not fully light yet. But the secrets of the night are giving way to the whispers of the day.
Maybe you can indulge in watching the drama play out, perhaps as you drive to work you catch glimpses in your rear-view mirror, or as you walk to the bus stop the moon relaxes from a shining beacon to a bright patch. Perhaps you choose your spot on the train for a ringside seat of the day unfolding as the landscape rolls by.
It is an ordinary miracle that every morning the night cedes it reign to the day (then in the evening the sun surrenders). These are generally modest retreats, a smooth transition of gray traipsing across the sky until the last smudges of darkness evanesce to whisps of light. But on mornings of extra enchantment, we are the beneficiaries of sparkling jewels of delight. A raging kaleidoscope of multi-hued mayhem marches in advance of the sun. It cares not if we’re poised to appreciate it, it’s content to carry on without us. You may only catch a small yet exquisite facet of the display from the corner of the bathroom window as it peeks up from behind the Shell station down the block or as the twinkling of the sky almost matches the taillights of the line of traffic ahead of you.
You are still a part of it, even if you aren’t fully enveloped by it. And it is part of you, yours to carry with you through your day.
This is your respite of solitude and transformation, your rite of passage to enter into the new day, unencumbered by darkness and doubt.
If you’re very lucky, you can have a view of that small spot in the sky where the diva sun makes her grand entrance. This is not a requirement for complete sunrise enjoyment. There exists that exquisite second when the first spark of light from the sun peeks up, it’s so tiny, yet blindingly bright. It grows like a flame, bursting open until the sun has dazzled its way into a brilliant orb. You may have to blink, your eyes are burned. By the time you open your eyes again, the space between the sun and horizon has expanded.
This signals the closing of the ritual. The sky will continue to swirl its color show, but now the day is splayed out before you, awaiting your attention.
I consider sunrises and sunsets an important part of self-care. They’re omnipresent reminders of beauty and the temporal nature of life. They afford us the opportunity for ritual and transition twice a day, a few moments to observe the temporality of our world.
My view of sunrises and sunsets from where I live is limited. I can see multi-hued slices of dawn between buildings and streets. Just enough to remind me that it’s happening, but not enough to make me feel like I’m part of it. The same goes for sunsets, they are lattice shaped portals to a splendor that I’ll never reach.
I’ve been lucky in my life. Over 20 years at sea have afforded me a collection of the world’s finest sunrises and sunsets. Sunsets were a mere tease, a quick smear of departing color as I madly forged ahead with my prep to serve dinner on time, while I heard guests ooh and ahh --drunk on the sky, the experience, their yachting vacation and the copious amount of expensive alcohol my coworkers plied them with.
But sunrises were my jam. Especially on ocean voyages, where we’d already been living in a liminal state, floating atop the sea, hundreds, maybe thousands of miles from land, to be cruising through yet more liminal space of a night watch— alert to every speck of light, shape in the darkness. After so many hours thrust into obscurity, the night always shows a shred of vulnerability and starts to relinquish its grasp of the void. From the bridge or the cockpit, we are awarded an all-access pass to the changing of the guard, to the celebration that ushers in the new day. No matter how long, dark or terrifying the night was, it always made way for the day.
Most of my yachting mornings I was the first crewmember up, banging around in the galley shortly after 5am. That first half hour was me fumbling about, fragments of dreams clinging to my eyelashes and brain; turning on ovens, kettles and coffee makers to crank the day to life. It was my favorite time of day, free from the constraints of my rigorous schedule, from conversation, questions or decisions. I didn’t always have a view of any technicolor sky plumage, in fact, some galleys didn’t offer me much more than a tiny port hole at the water line and far above my head. But it was still a sacred time to be alone with the day.
I made a point of attending this morning’s sunrise. Sunday is my no-alarm morning, but I set it early and only hit the snooze button once before jolting out of bed in dogged pursuit of my mission. In the time it took to throw on some clothes the inky black sky dissolved itself into a bright-ish gray/blue. I grabbed an orange, a banana and some pepper spray (snacks and because I’m a woman alone in the dark) before walking into the morning.
The Savannah River is one mile from my front door. The city’s tree canopy and architecture blocks any view of the eastern sky. My only indication of the impending sunrise was a streetlight or two automatically turning themselves off, a sure signal the show had begun. I spied a lone figure blocks from my house, then another. As I stepped into the downtown tourist area a team of two city workers tamed the trash and mess left behind by drunken revelers from last night.
Finally at the river, I wasn’t content to just look, so I raced east, past the tall tourist steam boats to be as close to the show as possible. This meant another mile walk along the river, but I was walking into my view.
I passed unhoused people sleeping on the sidewalk, passed the market place locked up awaiting the days commerce, passed bars and restaurants some of which had only closed a few hours earlier, passed four old men setting out their fishing lines, before I finally found the spot that felt right. No sooner had I settled in did that first glint of sun peek its way up and over Elba Island, a natural gas processing plant just down river.
Let the day commence.