It’s a little after 9am and I’ve been awake for almost 4 hours already. I’m starting a new schedule at work with longer days and earlier hours and I was out the door and on the road this morning well before I typically would have been out of bed. The sick thing is, I kind of liked it. I’ve always hated waking up, but I’m beginning to think I’m a bit of a morning-person closet case. It’s possible my hatred for getting out of bed in the morning is more related to sleep deprivation and hating my job than the time of day. It’s absolutely a cliche, but there’s something comforting in the solitude of being awake before everybody else.

One of my favorite childhood memories is waking up early in the summer and watching the sun come up behind the trees from the front porch of my dad’s house in eastern Kentucky. I’d sit, wrapped up in a blanket, drinking coffee and peeling strips of cracked green paint from the arm of the porch swing. Everything would be damp and cool, and as the sun came up, it got so hot so fast. Eventually when the heat became unbearable, I’d shed the blanket but still wouldn’t go inside. I’d sit in my pjs, reading a book and soaking in the morning until well after noon.