We All Wake Up Together

When I wake up in the morning, I like to imagine that the whole world is completely still. 

As I step the ball of my foot onto the hardwood floor of my bedroom, I wake the stagnant water like a smooth, cold pebble, the kind of pebble a child would tuck away in her pocket to place front and center in her rock collection back home, or show off to her mom and friends with pride.

Lights turn on one at a time and I paint a dark house with an ounce of regret at the back of my knees and an ounce of hope that lives somewhere at the center of my chest, a good recipe for any 5AM beginning. The sound of teeth being brushed, the sometimes-painfully-loud bathroom fan, and footsteps: they are tiny and off balance as I teach myself to walk again. The aroma of coffee floats into my nostrils as a growing awareness of the anticipated happenings of this day softly announces its place. 

Meeting, 9AM. 

Two extra outfits packed, 1 for yoga, 1 for a hot summer day.

Game face, ON.

I have taken on quite a few 6AM classes during my week. This is the cause to my early rise Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Andddd as you would imagine, some mornings are harder than others. And sometimes when it gets to Thursday, it can be hard to make that first initial step into the stagnant water beneath me. 

But the truth?

These mornings are quiet and tender and full.

They feel like they are completely mine to rest in, play in, struggle in.

They are a gift. 

And when it gets to 7:15AM on these mornings, a lot of times, I have a unique warmth and a grace that feel equivalent to that layer of extra sleep. At that point on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, my heart is full from leading early risers into waking up their hips and shoulders and there is this humble but grand sense of unity in knowing we all wake up together.

When I get into my car after leaving my house and I merge right to dip into the interstate, it’s like jumping into a cool pool in the heat of July. The roads are calm and unintrusive, a rarity in this growing city we call Nashville. And the sunrise- she greets me there, right at that same spot every time, living within the frame of my car windshield like it’s hanging on a wall in a fancy art museum.

Have you ever collected water in the palms of your hands and watched it slowly trickle to the ground? That’s what this sunrise feels like. 

From hands to the earth floor, water falls down.

From earth walls to earth ceiling, colors rise up.

Same trickle.

Same nourishment.

I think a lot about my energy, my presence, my spirit that I bring to each day. And I want my inner light to do that: to rise softly and then disperse, calling others to rise with a rich eagerness to see what all is out there in the world for them that day.

Sometimes this happens and sometimes it doesn’t. Let’s be honest: there are some seasons where the only thing rising in me is a temper and the impatience of a 5 year old. Like if I’m in traffic or if I feel used or taken advantage of or feel that my needs are not being met at work, home, or in my relationships. Those days, I barely, barely rise. Instead of light lifting and then dispersing, all I have to give is enough light to help people see where they are going, just two feet in front of them.

You know those foggy mornings with a misty rain where you have to turn the music down in your car and lean forward to make sure you understand the shape and texture of everything moving around you so you don’t run into anything? That’s what I’m talking about.

But those seasons are important too.

Without those seasons, we do not always appreciate the light, the color of the sky greeting us at 5:15 in the morning, welcoming us to the day like a grandmother with chocolate chip cookies and milk.

And in these seasons, someone else’s light guides me.

That’s what we do.

We are there for each other.

That’s the only way to do this thing we call life.

Otherwise, we are all just robots going to work, going home, going to work, going home.

Is that all you want?