The Hour Before Morning

Dim light slips through the blinds, soft and undecided, as though unsure whether to begin. The world is hushed, as if the usual sounds of ordinary life have paused. This is the time I love most - my hour before morning. 

I move slowly, deliberately, not yet fully awake, allowing small rituals to do the work. The curtains are opened. Steam rises from my mug. A book waits where I left it the night before, its bookmark forgotten as I crossed into sleep. On my desk, a simple spiral notebook and a few pens. 

To the average person, an entire hour spent in quiet idleness may seem inconceivable to fit into our busy lives. But the hour before morning can be as brief as a cup of coffee finished in one unhurried sitting, on the edge of the bed, sometimes by the window, or perhaps out on the balcony when the weather allows. A time once filled with general anxieties about the hours, days, weeks, years ahead becomes still. 

I realize there are other interpretations of this ritual, an early morning run, a stretch, a few moments of prayer- all acts, in one way or another, of meditation. Ways of quieting the mind and sitting gently with oneself. Sometimes I read, lazily almost, skimming the same paragraph over until the words settle into place. Sometimes I write, small fragments of dreams now fading. Sometimes I do nothing at all. 

Quieting the mind, especially in today’s restless world where unrest seems almost more natural than calm, takes practice - and a conscious effort to preserve this peace before thought and obligation take over. But with time, we begin to see the changing sky through windowed curtains, savor the first sip of coffee, and bask in the warmth of a sleepy hug from a loved one.  

And yes, as we move away from this moment of peace, the day may grow loud, crowded, complicated. But by the time the world begins to stir, something inside me has already steadied, my pace set with intention and presence. I often find myself revisiting the morning in small moments throughout the day - standing in line, between work calls, walking towards the evening that will bring morning once again.