One of the first lessons I took in as I began my informal study of Thoreau this week was how much he valued the early morning hours. To hear Thoreau tell it, we could all be much more exalted, efficient, morally well-served and aesthetically blessed individuals if only we took better advantage of the early morning hours by starting our day earlier.
“The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour,” he wrote. “Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night. … All memorable events, I should say, transpire in morning time and in a morning atmosphere.”
Reading these words, I became an instant convert. “That’s it!” I thought to myself. “To take another step toward the person I want to be…I just need to be up earlier in the morning!”
But then I remembered something. I already get up at 5:30. Just how early did Thoreau mean? For that matter, just how early did he himself arise?
If I continue with my 2011 goal of becoming more familiar with his work, maybe I’ll be able to deduce an answer to that question. Even if he doesn’t name the time at which he rises, I imagine there are clues in his writing. Where he so often focuses on observations of nature, there must be numerous passages in which I could match his description of available light to the season to figure out whether he was bathing in Walden Pond – which the same passage referred to as his first activity of the day – at, say, 7 a.m. as opposed to 4 a.m.
On weekdays, I set my alarm for 5:30 so that I have time to write my 1000 words of Morning Pages, per the method of writing instructor and author Julia Cameron, and ride my stationary bike for 45 minutes before the kids wake up and need breakfast. (Actually, the image of my kids waking before I’ve had a chance to finish exercising and demanding breakfast right away is something of a mental relic from when they were babies. These days I have to nudge them into wakefulness several times and urge them to ingest something in time to catch the bus. So it’s not a matter of them being demanding, just the demands of the school day and its time-specific schedule.) When I’m done biking on weekday mornings, I wake the kids, make their breakfast, give the dog her breakfast, let the dog out and back in, and then head out to the barnyard to give the cows and sheep their breakfast, with the goal of getting back to the house in time to eat something myself before I have to hurry to catch a shower and still get Holly out to her bus on time. (Tim takes responsibility himself for being on time to catch the middle school bus, but I still have to ensure that all the pieces are in place to get him out there: food, vitamin, teeth-brushing reminder, lunch packed and ready to go.)
Nonetheless, Thoreau’s description of the value of greeting the dawn seduced me momentarily. So that’s what I need to do!, I thought to myself. Thoreau did not have children who needed breakfast, nor did he have livestock to feed, and he certainly didn’t have a schoolbus schedule to comply with. He also didn’t feel obligated to spend 45 minutes on the stationary bike; he spent much of the day walking through the woods of Concord and probably had no need of supplementary exercise.
But all of this is really beside the point. Just how early would I have to set my alarm for to gain even more benefits of the morning than I already do? Maybe 4:30. Objectively, I can imagine that in the heart of the summer I would witness breathtaking sunrises if I were up at that hour, and surely reap some of the rewards of this greater exposure to the natural world that Thoreau espouses. At this time of winter, though, I don’t think 4:30 would feel all that much different from 5:30. It would still be cold, and dark as pitch, and I’d still be drowsy.
And so for now I don’t plan to recalibrate my mornings. A year ago, I wrote of the resolution to get up earlier on weekends, when unlike weekdays I don’t really have to. That resolution succeeded somewhat. It’s hard for me to resist the temptation to bask in sleepy splendor on Saturday and Sunday mornings until about 7, or more specifically until the 7 a.m. news headlines have been read on NPR, but I’m usually up by 7:10. That’s a whole hour earlier than was typical before I made that resolution a year ago.
It’s a start, and for now it will have to do. I’m pragmatic enough to acknowledge that rising earlier wouldn’t make me able to write like Thoreau or even to see the world through the perspective of Thoreau, and at the moment I don’t feel like the hour my alarm goes off is a worthwhile target for self-improvement. To me, 5:30 on weekdays feels early enough, and I’ll just have to seek extra self-improvement after the sun comes up to compensate for whatever I’m missing out on.
Showing posts with label mornings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mornings. Show all posts
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Good morning, good day
My friend and neighbor Tom Fitzpatrick, who produces the Globe’s Reflection for the Day, posted this Swahili proverb in yesterday’s paper: “A good day reveals itself by morning.”
At first, I quailed a bit when I read that, because it seemed to suggest that if a morning is not so good, forget about it – there’s no way to redeem the day. And I don’t want to develop that mindset, because surely it’s not always true: a difficult morning can still turn into a good day, can’t it? As if to reassure me – psychically, as it turns out, since I hadn’t shared this concern – my niece, Sophie, posted on Facebook before the end of the day that she “was having a yucky day, but then it totally turned around tonight when I made myself do something I didn't want to.”
I think both of them – the Swahili proverb-makers and my niece – are right some of the time. A good day often is one that’s already clearly on track before the morning is over…but a bad day can still turn itself around.
What feels more relevant to me is the corrolary: a good morning often paves the way to a good day. With the school year under way once again, I’m back on a morning schedule I love. I get up early so that I don’t have to rush through the kids’ breakfasts. Once both of them have eaten, Tim rides his bike to the bus stop, Holly heads upstairs to dress, Rick leaves for work, and I cross the pasture to the barnyard and let the sheep out to graze. The dog accompanies me, dashing across the fields or just nosing around the brook, depending on where a flash of movement first catches her eye.
After Holly climbs onto the bus, I hit the footpath for my daily run. It turns out this is a perfect time of day for me to run. Not so much physically but mentally. When I run just as Holly is heading to school, it’s like a physical transition between caring for other people – waking them up, feeding them, keeping them on schedule so as not to be late for school – and spending the next six hours by myself, writing. I say goodbye to her and then by turn my focus inward as I run: nothing demanding my attention but the need to propel myself forward along the footpath. First the quiet section next to the fields my father mows in the summer; then briefly into the woods by the day lily nursery; across Bedford Rd. and into the Center. I pass near the school at 8:55, just five minutes after class has started for Holly and an hour into Tim’s day; I picture both of them already immersed in classroom projects and discussions before I pass onward toward Concord St. and then turn around at Clark Farm to head back.
And then once I’m home, with my simple two-mile run done, it’s time to wash the breakfast dishes, brew the coffee and get to work. Writing is harder for me than running, but getting the run over with early somehow makes me feel like I’ve already slain some dragons. Running isn’t hard, but it gives a concrete sense of accomplishment in a way that neither household responsibilities nor writing necessarily transmit. I did my run; I can surely write this profile, I tell myself. Writing is just sitting here putting words together. Surely you can do that.
So I think the proverb makes sense. A good day may reveal itself by morning; a good morning often portends a pleasurable and productive day. On the other hand as Sophie said, there’s no reason to believe les jeux sont fait if it’s not such a good morning. I currently have a morning routine so enjoyable that the day to follow tends to be fulfilling as well, though. Like a nutritious breakfast, though it doesn’t guarantee a good day to follow, it definitely seems to provide an auspicious start.
At first, I quailed a bit when I read that, because it seemed to suggest that if a morning is not so good, forget about it – there’s no way to redeem the day. And I don’t want to develop that mindset, because surely it’s not always true: a difficult morning can still turn into a good day, can’t it? As if to reassure me – psychically, as it turns out, since I hadn’t shared this concern – my niece, Sophie, posted on Facebook before the end of the day that she “was having a yucky day, but then it totally turned around tonight when I made myself do something I didn't want to.”
I think both of them – the Swahili proverb-makers and my niece – are right some of the time. A good day often is one that’s already clearly on track before the morning is over…but a bad day can still turn itself around.
What feels more relevant to me is the corrolary: a good morning often paves the way to a good day. With the school year under way once again, I’m back on a morning schedule I love. I get up early so that I don’t have to rush through the kids’ breakfasts. Once both of them have eaten, Tim rides his bike to the bus stop, Holly heads upstairs to dress, Rick leaves for work, and I cross the pasture to the barnyard and let the sheep out to graze. The dog accompanies me, dashing across the fields or just nosing around the brook, depending on where a flash of movement first catches her eye.
After Holly climbs onto the bus, I hit the footpath for my daily run. It turns out this is a perfect time of day for me to run. Not so much physically but mentally. When I run just as Holly is heading to school, it’s like a physical transition between caring for other people – waking them up, feeding them, keeping them on schedule so as not to be late for school – and spending the next six hours by myself, writing. I say goodbye to her and then by turn my focus inward as I run: nothing demanding my attention but the need to propel myself forward along the footpath. First the quiet section next to the fields my father mows in the summer; then briefly into the woods by the day lily nursery; across Bedford Rd. and into the Center. I pass near the school at 8:55, just five minutes after class has started for Holly and an hour into Tim’s day; I picture both of them already immersed in classroom projects and discussions before I pass onward toward Concord St. and then turn around at Clark Farm to head back.
And then once I’m home, with my simple two-mile run done, it’s time to wash the breakfast dishes, brew the coffee and get to work. Writing is harder for me than running, but getting the run over with early somehow makes me feel like I’ve already slain some dragons. Running isn’t hard, but it gives a concrete sense of accomplishment in a way that neither household responsibilities nor writing necessarily transmit. I did my run; I can surely write this profile, I tell myself. Writing is just sitting here putting words together. Surely you can do that.
So I think the proverb makes sense. A good day may reveal itself by morning; a good morning often portends a pleasurable and productive day. On the other hand as Sophie said, there’s no reason to believe les jeux sont fait if it’s not such a good morning. I currently have a morning routine so enjoyable that the day to follow tends to be fulfilling as well, though. Like a nutritious breakfast, though it doesn’t guarantee a good day to follow, it definitely seems to provide an auspicious start.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Early morning running
Unexpectedly, I’ve returned this month to a habit from college summers: early morning running. And it’s been wonderful.
There are so many advantages to running right after waking, but other habits had evolved over the past several years, and I’d drifted away from that kind of schedule.
For a long time now, even during the past two years and eleven months while I’ve been committed to running every day, my running schedule has varied from month to month. For the two summers I was running with my son, we usually went at the end of the day; he just wasn’t interested in getting up early for the sake of exercising. In other phases, I’ve gone in the late afternoon or just before dinner. During the school year, I usually run midmorning, right around the time the dog starts to get restless, and toward the end of last spring I fell into the habit of setting off on my run right from the bus stop after Holly boarded her bus to school.
So early mornings haven’t been my time for running since college days. But there are so many reasons it’s a great time to run, and in the past month I’ve been reminded of what they all are, now that once again – with Rick off to work by eight, the sun so hot for much of the day this summer, and Tim’s baseball games most evenings – I’m in the habit of rolling out of bed, pulling on my running clothes and hitting the road.
The fact is, as much as I tell myself that running is something to look forward to and not to get over with, it’s so satisfying to know as the day gets under way that you’ve already accomplished that one simple goal of running two miles, or whatever the goal may be. Back when I ran in the late afternoon, I’d tell myself it was something to look forward to all day, an interlude of solitude as the day ended. But really, more often than not, I looked ahead with a sense of wariness, especially during hot weather. Haven’t I done enough today? I’d catch myself wondering. I’ve biked with the kids, gone swimming, walked all over the supermarket; do I really still have to go running?
Heading out first thing in the morning is different. I love the cool air that lasts only an hour or two after sunrise; it’s like I’m getting in on the early bird special by taking advantage of the shaded roadways early enough that the July sun hasn’t yet heated them. My kids are still asleep as I head out; they won’t even realize that they’re missing out on time with me. I like seeing the early morning commuters, the bicyclists, the neighbors out retrieving their newspapers. The school campus lies still as it waits for the onslaught of day-campers, the library parking lot empty, the post office just opening for business. The day is just beginning, and I’m out greeting it. Somehow it makes me feel ahead of the game.
The satisfaction lasts throughout the rest of the day. I ran my two miles; what about you? I think, but the thought is directed toward no one in particular. It’s not like most of the people I see throughout a typical day couldn’t run two miles if they wanted to, or haven’t done something even more physically challenging themselves at some point during the day. It’s just the sense that by getting out early, I’m resting on my laurels for all the hours that remain. Yes, writing deadlines need to be met, loads of laundry started, sandwiches made, trips to the vet or the pharmacy undertaken. But I do it all knowing I already went running. It’s a small and trivial achievement, but somehow it still makes me feel I’ve accomplished something worthwhile, regardless of what other challenges the day brings.
There are so many advantages to running right after waking, but other habits had evolved over the past several years, and I’d drifted away from that kind of schedule.
For a long time now, even during the past two years and eleven months while I’ve been committed to running every day, my running schedule has varied from month to month. For the two summers I was running with my son, we usually went at the end of the day; he just wasn’t interested in getting up early for the sake of exercising. In other phases, I’ve gone in the late afternoon or just before dinner. During the school year, I usually run midmorning, right around the time the dog starts to get restless, and toward the end of last spring I fell into the habit of setting off on my run right from the bus stop after Holly boarded her bus to school.
So early mornings haven’t been my time for running since college days. But there are so many reasons it’s a great time to run, and in the past month I’ve been reminded of what they all are, now that once again – with Rick off to work by eight, the sun so hot for much of the day this summer, and Tim’s baseball games most evenings – I’m in the habit of rolling out of bed, pulling on my running clothes and hitting the road.
The fact is, as much as I tell myself that running is something to look forward to and not to get over with, it’s so satisfying to know as the day gets under way that you’ve already accomplished that one simple goal of running two miles, or whatever the goal may be. Back when I ran in the late afternoon, I’d tell myself it was something to look forward to all day, an interlude of solitude as the day ended. But really, more often than not, I looked ahead with a sense of wariness, especially during hot weather. Haven’t I done enough today? I’d catch myself wondering. I’ve biked with the kids, gone swimming, walked all over the supermarket; do I really still have to go running?
Heading out first thing in the morning is different. I love the cool air that lasts only an hour or two after sunrise; it’s like I’m getting in on the early bird special by taking advantage of the shaded roadways early enough that the July sun hasn’t yet heated them. My kids are still asleep as I head out; they won’t even realize that they’re missing out on time with me. I like seeing the early morning commuters, the bicyclists, the neighbors out retrieving their newspapers. The school campus lies still as it waits for the onslaught of day-campers, the library parking lot empty, the post office just opening for business. The day is just beginning, and I’m out greeting it. Somehow it makes me feel ahead of the game.
The satisfaction lasts throughout the rest of the day. I ran my two miles; what about you? I think, but the thought is directed toward no one in particular. It’s not like most of the people I see throughout a typical day couldn’t run two miles if they wanted to, or haven’t done something even more physically challenging themselves at some point during the day. It’s just the sense that by getting out early, I’m resting on my laurels for all the hours that remain. Yes, writing deadlines need to be met, loads of laundry started, sandwiches made, trips to the vet or the pharmacy undertaken. But I do it all knowing I already went running. It’s a small and trivial achievement, but somehow it still makes me feel I’ve accomplished something worthwhile, regardless of what other challenges the day brings.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Rise and shine -- but at the moment it's not easy
In one of those countless phases of child development that wax and wane, taking on paramount importance when you’re in the midst of them and then becoming forgotten within days after they subside, my 7-year-old and I are in a Difficult Mornings phase. For the past several days, it’s been torturous to get her out of the house in the morning, and it never fails to amaze me that after eleven years of parenting, there are situations like this to which I still haven’t figured out a solution. I’ve been getting kids ready to leave the house for daycare, preschool or regular school for well over a decade, I remind myself. How is it that I still have a problem with it?
When I complain about my own ineptitude to my husband, he’s always quick to remind me that for the two years I was working outside the house and he was responsible for morning departures, it all ran like clockwork. It always does when he’s in charge, because he simply brooks no dissent and takes no prisoners. Children are dressed, groomed, packed and ready to go when he starts the car because it never occurs to him – nor therefore to them – that there’s any other option.
Alas, not so with me. Now both Rick and Tim are gone by 7:30, and I have a whole fifty minutes alone with Holly to get her out the door. Yet the past several days have found me practically bursting a blood vessel as Holly stalls and dodges, sometimes for reasons of her own and sometimes for reasons I impose. She’s not dressed warmly enough. She’s wearing the same shirt as the day before. She didn’t brush her teeth yet. (My reasons.) She forgot the stuffed animal that she promised a friend could play with at recess. Her ponytail is fastened with a pink elastic and she likes only purple now. The dog needs to have her stomach scratched. (Holly’s reasons.)
I remind myself over and over again to choose my battles. Holly insists on fixing her own hair these days, and I tell myself it’s okay if her part is crooked and her pigtails mussed. But what about wearing the same shirt she wore the day before? Is that a battle worth fighting? I’m not sure. The ineffective tooth-brushing and my insistence that she go upstairs and do it again is definitely a battle worth fighting, as poor dental hygiene is serious business, but that doesn’t make it any less awful when we’re about to miss the bus and Holly is arguing with me about whether or not the use of toothpaste matters.
One problem with finding a solution to the challenge of leaving the house on time is that it’s hard to find an immediate bargaining chip. Unlike, say, not being ready to go to the playground, it’s not like I can say to Holly “If you don’t get ready immediately, we’re not going.” She has to go to school, and we both know it. Incentives based on after-school activities often seem too far off to have much impact, and at the age of seven, she’s a little beyond being motivated by a sticker chart. The fact is, she knows I’m going to be sure she gets to school one way or another, so it often seems like the onus is on me to get us out with any kind of efficiency, and without major temper tantrums on either of our parts.
Yesterday wasn’t much of a success, but maybe today will be better. Last night when all was calm before bedtime (interestingly, bedtime is not an issue these days; we read and then Holly goes to sleep, easy as that), she and I had a talk about it. I told her why I think it’s important to wear different clothes from one day to the next and why I’m certain it’s important to brush your teeth. She promised to get an earlier start on all of it next time.
The consolation as far as obstacles in schoolday morning routines is that you have so many chances to get it right. Five days a week, ten months out of the year. If yesterday didn’t go so well, I know I have the chance to make today go better. We’ll see if I can. And if not, I just remind myself that each stage passes in time. If now I’m getting apoplectic every morning insisting that Holly brush her hair and wear a fresh clean outfit, the day will quite likely come when she spends hours on her hair and clothing, and I’ll wonder what I ever worried about.
When Tim was just a few weeks old, a mother of a baby just a few months older said to me, “The bad phases pass quickly, and the good phases pass quickly. Whatever is going on with them changes, for better or worse.” True today just as it was eleven years ago. Today’s battles will yield in time to tomorrow’s battles, whatever they might be. And when that happens, I’ll remember that they too will pass in time. For now, I need to focus on the fact that it’s more important to have clean teeth than clean clothes, and that as long as I get the kids to school on time and safely and remember to kiss them before they climb onto the bus, the rest is just details.
When I complain about my own ineptitude to my husband, he’s always quick to remind me that for the two years I was working outside the house and he was responsible for morning departures, it all ran like clockwork. It always does when he’s in charge, because he simply brooks no dissent and takes no prisoners. Children are dressed, groomed, packed and ready to go when he starts the car because it never occurs to him – nor therefore to them – that there’s any other option.
Alas, not so with me. Now both Rick and Tim are gone by 7:30, and I have a whole fifty minutes alone with Holly to get her out the door. Yet the past several days have found me practically bursting a blood vessel as Holly stalls and dodges, sometimes for reasons of her own and sometimes for reasons I impose. She’s not dressed warmly enough. She’s wearing the same shirt as the day before. She didn’t brush her teeth yet. (My reasons.) She forgot the stuffed animal that she promised a friend could play with at recess. Her ponytail is fastened with a pink elastic and she likes only purple now. The dog needs to have her stomach scratched. (Holly’s reasons.)
I remind myself over and over again to choose my battles. Holly insists on fixing her own hair these days, and I tell myself it’s okay if her part is crooked and her pigtails mussed. But what about wearing the same shirt she wore the day before? Is that a battle worth fighting? I’m not sure. The ineffective tooth-brushing and my insistence that she go upstairs and do it again is definitely a battle worth fighting, as poor dental hygiene is serious business, but that doesn’t make it any less awful when we’re about to miss the bus and Holly is arguing with me about whether or not the use of toothpaste matters.
One problem with finding a solution to the challenge of leaving the house on time is that it’s hard to find an immediate bargaining chip. Unlike, say, not being ready to go to the playground, it’s not like I can say to Holly “If you don’t get ready immediately, we’re not going.” She has to go to school, and we both know it. Incentives based on after-school activities often seem too far off to have much impact, and at the age of seven, she’s a little beyond being motivated by a sticker chart. The fact is, she knows I’m going to be sure she gets to school one way or another, so it often seems like the onus is on me to get us out with any kind of efficiency, and without major temper tantrums on either of our parts.
Yesterday wasn’t much of a success, but maybe today will be better. Last night when all was calm before bedtime (interestingly, bedtime is not an issue these days; we read and then Holly goes to sleep, easy as that), she and I had a talk about it. I told her why I think it’s important to wear different clothes from one day to the next and why I’m certain it’s important to brush your teeth. She promised to get an earlier start on all of it next time.
The consolation as far as obstacles in schoolday morning routines is that you have so many chances to get it right. Five days a week, ten months out of the year. If yesterday didn’t go so well, I know I have the chance to make today go better. We’ll see if I can. And if not, I just remind myself that each stage passes in time. If now I’m getting apoplectic every morning insisting that Holly brush her hair and wear a fresh clean outfit, the day will quite likely come when she spends hours on her hair and clothing, and I’ll wonder what I ever worried about.
When Tim was just a few weeks old, a mother of a baby just a few months older said to me, “The bad phases pass quickly, and the good phases pass quickly. Whatever is going on with them changes, for better or worse.” True today just as it was eleven years ago. Today’s battles will yield in time to tomorrow’s battles, whatever they might be. And when that happens, I’ll remember that they too will pass in time. For now, I need to focus on the fact that it’s more important to have clean teeth than clean clothes, and that as long as I get the kids to school on time and safely and remember to kiss them before they climb onto the bus, the rest is just details.
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