I'm a morning person.
Really. I am.
I love to wake up early and greet the day. Perhaps 5:30? 6:00? Sip some green tea, do meditation, yoga. You know, ease into the day. See the sun come up, then head out into the fresh morning air for a run or a ride or a hike.
It's lovely. Near perfect, really.
I never get to do it, but it's lovely, nonetheless.
What I generally get is battered into semi consciousness in what is, essentially, the middle of the night by a screaming demon of an alarm (which is not to be confused by being awakened in the middle of the night by the Demon of Screamin'. That's another post entirely.). Making every effort to not wake Hubby, I stumble through the darkness, crying out silently as I inevitably stub my toe, and make my way to the bathroom. Once there, I down a glass of water and pray for all to go smoothly (ohplease, Idon'thavetimetowait, howisitalready4:17?). I fumble my way to the kitchen to slam a cup of tea and choke down my herbs so I can unroll my yoga mat and hurry up and relax already so that I'm not late for work. Again. That whole run/bike/hike thing will have to wait until after work. And will most likely take place on a piece of stationary machinery in the basement. Where we keep the cat's liter box.
Some days hand me a gift.
Some days, I get to not only greet the day with tea and meditation and yoga and running. Some days I get to luxuriate through the whole morning.
Some days I get to curl up in my chair, burrowed under a fleece blanket, with a book in my lap and a cup of tea at my side.
Some days there are warm scones, fresh out of the oven, with butter melting over the sides, a cup of chai, and a Hubby that I haven't seen all week with whom to share it.
Those mornings really are lovely. And way beyond perfect.