It’s the time of year when the days get shorter, darker, colder, when waking with the sun is a weekend indulgence. Perhaps an odd time to discover the power of getting up early, but here I am, writing this with the lights of my home reflected in the windows like dark mirrors.
My partner had a change at work that means getting up at 4:30 a.m. He’s a fitful sleeper (at best) and I like going to bed together, so I decided to attempt to better synchronize our clocks. I settled on a 5:20 wakeup (though some mornings has been even earlier, others a bit later). This has given me 1-1.5 new hours in my day, which, I’ve learned, are far more productive than similar hours at night would have been. At the end of the day, I’m tired, my partner is about, my synapses more like fireflies than electricity.
I get up and, really, truly light some candles. Partially because I’m a couple years behind and feeling obsessed with hygge for this winter, and partially because I recognize the power of ritual. I want it to feel special, to keep the romance alive. I don’t turn on the news yet, and the only sounds are from the traffic outside. I write in my gratitude journal (yes, it is embarrassing to write, but also: it has really and truly changed my brain for the better, to a degree unmatched by even 1.5 years of meditating). I write in my regular journal too, which has long been neglected because I either lacked the emotional bandwith to engage with big issues or the stamina to document small ones. But I’ve changed this a bit, to what I call a daybook, and no longer do I hold myself accountable for taking it all on or writing it all down, I simply write, point form, the things that have my attention. I’ve decided, this year, to lean into my interests, no matter how fleeting, and these are more engaging to note. Sometimes I add passages from good books I’ve reading. So far, it’s reinvigorated my journal practice and doesn’t feel taxing. Plus, it’s a reminder: your life is worthy of your attention.
And then there’s still time left over! Because time to yourself, used with intention, turns out to be more expansive than it seems. (Bigger on the inside, as Whovians would say.) Time to write here, or knock off some freelance work, or go to an early exercise class, or even just to read, a thing I find so luxurious but often have trouble prioritizing during the workweek.
I’d long read of people, often parents, who got up very early to find this very time, which I can imagine as a parent is even more enticing. A time to re-trace the borders of the self. But it feels like that even for me, like in these dark, bleary hours, I’m coming into sharper focus. And so is each day, a negative held up to the light in the darkroom of my mornings.
Getting up early still isn’t easy, but that’s because getting up isn’t easy. Or at least it isn’t for me, not yet. But now I start the day with attention, with intention, pausing before the day collapses like a row of dominoes. This is work without a distinct goal, without an endpoint or any identifiable results except that it feels good. And in winter, I’ll take as much of that as I can get.