dark morning, bright morning

Due to the ridiculousness of how early I rise, I get two mornings.  I'm smack in the middle of the dark morning, light from my kitchen behind me, blinds closed, black outside the large back door.  Bob just left, no PBJ today; he has loads of fruit left at the end of the week, and maybe he's thinking of stepping out for lunch.  I rose before him, scanning news sites (Novak Djokovic beat Andy Murray in five sets to meet Rafael Nadal at the men's Australian Open final), checking blogs, weather.  We're back to spring here in Silicon Valley; it was 53 F when I sat down at five a.m.  Daffodils are poking up in the front and back, new growth on Bob's blueberry, but that's all awash in night.  At 6.35 in the morning, it's pitch-black outside.

I've editing a chapter of September Story, will get to the last third of Memories Of Home when this entry is finished.  Not until seven or seven thirty will light begin to peek over the hills; a small time as morning begins to dawn.  It's been morning for me since, well, a while.  Quiet, still, dark.  Except for the kitchen light, it's dark.

I went for a walk yesterday in this darkness; I haven't been on a walk in ages.  I realized why I like walking (when I do walk) in the pre-dawn hours; at that moment Silicon Valley is muted.  It's not the South Bay; it's anywhere in the world.  Houses are closed, streets deserted, people vanished.  It could be anywhere on the planet at four in the morning, four thirty, five.  At five o'clock our little neighborhood is an anonymous place that has nothing to do with computers or technology.  Bob's usually out the door before six; he woke when I did, fortunately went back to sleep.  I can't.  Once I'm up, that's it and so begins the first part of the morning, the silent, dark, solitary bit of the day that shelters me from the crowded, clamorous Bay Area.  I need these peaceful minutes, I don't know what I'd do without them.

As a writer, I use these dark mornings to wake up, drink tea, eat Grape Nuts and bran flakes, stirring the muse to life.  No hummingbirds, no children, not even Bob; just me and various plots, and when I blog, music.  Neil Young at the moment, softly, gently.  "Hangin' On A Limb" from 1989's Freedom wafts from small speakers flanking my monitor and I peer to the back door; through the large window that encompasses that door, I see a bit of sky through one of the hanging plants.  Night is fading.  Day emerges every single morning.  But this precious, precarious spot that isn't day or night eases, reminds me all that whirling activity is for only set hours.  A decent chunk of our lives sits invisible, hushed, asking for just a minute's attention.  I give more than maybe most, but that's fine.  I'll be hitting my bed earlier than most, making all things equal.  I've never been a night owl; give me an early morning, dark then bright, any day.