Foggy Mornings, Humid Days
I am not normally a morning person.
For the last several weeks, I’ve been an early riser. This is not my normal circadian rhythm, but when the days turn thick and hot by late morning, I enjoy the benefits of outdoor time before the discomfort sets in. This spring, I set a goal to buy a large air conditioner for our open space upstairs this year (the basement stays cool), but then my car was totaled, and the dryer died. So the bedroom is the only room again this year with air conditioning.
But we’ve all heard it before - it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. And in early mornings, the temperature may be tolerable, but humidity levels are reflected in dewy wet grass and in the fog. I rock in the porch swing, and the fog obscures the distant scene completely, but as the sun rises and the whiteness dissipates, rabbits grazing the yard come into view, and then the deer dining on the wild raspberries.
Within an hour, the fog has lifted, and the sunshine begins to evaporate the dew from the grass, and though not yet hot, physical exertion will make my glasses foggy, while small beads of sweat appear on my forehead and upper lip. The humid fog may have lifted, but the humidity remains.
A lone nearby cicada joins the morning birdsong, answered occasionally by another from far across the field. Though only mid-July, that chittering is a late-summer sound — within a few weeks, there will be a chorus of insect chittering, the peak of summer’s fecundity, the high point of the season’s production and presence, before the fade of the season begins.
I say I’m not a morning person, but truth be told, I have nothing against mornings. They are simultaneously fresh and reflective, pristine and peaceful, comforting and quietly encouraging. My problem is in my awakening, the shift from the dreaming subconscious back to consciousness. Once I am up and “at ‘em,” I’m fine if I slept well the night before. It’s that transition that causes me grief, not the morning itself.
(And for those not aware: humidity, heat, and sleeplessness are all prominent issues for perimenopausal and menopausal women, so there’s that as well.)
This morning I have glanced at the headlines of The New York Times and touched base with local issues on Facebook, which someone just last night likened to a “black mold” of vitriol and bad thoughts, and in this early morning light, I have managed to prevent current national and local events and situations tarnish what looks to be a fairly beautiful (though hot and humid) day.
The phone ringing brings an interruption, and I can tell immediately by the time of day and the Caller ID that it’s a wrong number dialed by someone calling the local hardware store. Our number is one number off from the hardware store and the local pharmacy, so these misdials are not uncommon. I don’t answer (they’ll figure it out), but it is a sign that folks are in motion in the world, and that instead of quietly writing, I need to do some weedeating before the heat of the day kicks in.
Mornings remind us that life goes on. Despite flooding in Texas, despite liars and injustices and financial challenges and human struggles, a new day dawns.
Most of my life, I have worked to avoid early morning whenever possible. I know, with this dawn, I’ve been cheating myself. And, I make myself a promise I know I will not keep for long — to rise early, and enjoy. I might manage it until the time change, until mornings are black and cold and sterile. But until then, I will be a morning person, a tourist of this time of day, with a fresh appreciation of that early riser frame of mind.
Years ago, I lamented to a psychology major, “I wish I was a morning person.” Very quickly, and curtly, she replied, “And I wish I was tall.” But I also remember the advice my father gave me. “The best thing you can do in your life is become a morning person.” Maybe, at long last, I will be.