Most mornings I’m out walking by around 6:30 a.m. I am that functioning, usually chipper morning person-yes, before caffeine and everything- that no one wants in their carpool. As a teenager I never set an alarm; my body clock was fine-tuned to early rising. In college I was that singular dork looking for classes that started at 8 a.m. I was also that singular dork who preferred to be in bed reading at 10 p.m. when everyone else was pre-gaming before going out. Dawn seems to be my default setting, something that can only bode well for me as I shuffle toward my Golden Girls years and stop sleeping entirely (hey, this neighborhood isn’t going to watch itself you know!). Of course it’s not always easy, especially in the frigid winter months when I am entombed in flannel sheets and heavy afghans, braided in warmth like a human croissant. Breaking the seal and pulling on cold exercise clothes is not fun, but always worth it. Always.
Photographers call the timeframe when the sun starts to rise as the “golden hour.” The sun is usually not fully visible above the horizon, but its light plays over the clouds and sky to create a stunning palette of colors and hues and washes. Just about every type of scene—from city skylines and prairie plains to sleepy woodland marshes—becomes a new kind of spectacular during this time of day. But the trick is catching it. The right place is right where you are, it’s the timing that’s everything.
A sunrise is a masterclass in mortality. Those blazing streaks of red, the ribbons of purple are already on the fade as soon as you look up and that gasp of “wow” or “whoa” leaves your lips. The time to appreciate the light show is immediately if not sooner. The moment to reflect on how lucky you are to be in this spot at just those few minutes is now.
Sometimes I ask my friends: “If you could do some kind of over-the-top thing like an obscenely wealthy person or global icon, like Michelle Obama or Paul McCartney, what would it be?” One of my answers is along the lines of having a museum like The Louvre or the MET all to myself (Sorry, did you skim over the part about what a colossal dork I am?). So, until I achieve Bono-level stardom and influence, I will have to settle on gazing at the painted ceiling of the morning sky.
New England winters are hard even when they’re not harsh. But there is nothing as heartening as experiencing darkness breaking in real time. Dawn comes on like the sweetest of overtures, playing night off the stage with her warm tones, bright notes, and hopeful measures. Sometimes when I’m staring at the sky for a few minutes, taking photos and exhaling gratitude, I think about how somewhere, in some place I may never visit, someone else is also looking up and marveling at this every day event as fleeting and fragile as life itself.
Gorgeous photos and beautiful commentary! Thanks for this jolt of inspiration, it's so lovely. :)
It brings me great joy to know you and I are taking our morning walks at the same time (different time zones though!) every day, marveling at the beauty of nature, exhaling with the birdsong. ❤️