For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a morning person. When I wake up, no matter how early it is, I am flooded with joy at the day’s prospects. As a child, it was television that inspired me to rise. I’d walk out of my bedroom into a completely still house and quietly make my way downstairs, where I’d watch cartoons before the rest of my family awoke. The stations flipped with a click of the remote, switching back and forth between episodes of The Muppet Show and Ghostbusters (yes, I’m a child of the ’80s). These were my hours to get lost in mindless programs and I cherished these moments.
Since my youth, the way I spend my mornings has changed. When I’m not pressured to get out of the house, I curl up on the couch and read newspaper articles on the computer, with Maki sleeping by my side and a plate of fresh pastries on the table before me.
I like mornings because it’s my time. Time to relax and reflect, time to do what I want to do before work gets in the way. And for that short period, my mind is clear. I can think and write and read. I can sip and nibble and in no way do I feel rushed. Most importantly, I can breath. Slowly and steadily.