For quite some time, I have missed the morning. I haven't overslept (I wish I had!), nor have I been away from it somehow; I've participated in it, I've gotten up and had my coffee, I've watched the news, etc., etc. But I have not reveled in it. I have not enjoyed it as I used to do. For many years, morning was my favorite time of day-- I loved the stillness, the quiet, the semidarkness just before the sun crests over the horizon. I loved drinking my tea (or, of late, my coffee) and letting my body wake from dreaming. Mornings were, in a way, magical to me. They were the genesis of a new day. It was as if God Himself came down and hovered in the steam above my mug, and played in the dew on the grass or the mist in the Tennessee air.
But this past year has been different.
Mornings have simply become a means to and end. They morphed into a time for cramming as much caffeine into my system as possible before jumping into the shower, dressing, and running out the door to head for campus and the day's activities. This was and is a sad regression. I don't know what brought it on: a change in scenery perhaps? A change in habit? Perhaps.
Now, having finally moved out of my apartment on W. Clark St. in Champaign, I feel I have started over. I have hit a metaphorical "Reset" button that has taken me to a time before this year-- before college, even-- and to a place where mornings are once again calming and reflective. I write all of this to point out that this "return of morning" is quite appropriate and much welcomed for me. It has come with other things as well-- I've been reading voraciously, writing more, and sleeping (a bit) more.
My life seems to have returned to me.