Mornings always strike me in different ways. The cold winter mornings with their late light and stiff air are almost always invitations to sleep a little bit longer.
Spring mornings, as the light begins to win, and scent of new life is all around, literally push me out of bed to figure out what new there is in the world on that fine day.
Summer mornings are the oddest — the sun starts in my windows too early, and the warm air is nearly suffocating when you walk out the door, but you also know that these days are to be treasured as offset for the winter’s opposite effect.
Fall mornings almost always are depressing to me. I like the return of cool morning air, but the loss of light is a creeping monster of sadness that I begin to dread long before I should, and therefore leaves a stain on my spirit that I wish I could wash away.
This morning I was thrown off by the dark sky and the sun’s inability to burn through the clouds, and slept later than the normal 6:30 arrival of the new light on the horizon. So I slept a bit longer, and had to orient myself to the time of year when I did awake.
But I awoke… and therefore it will be a good day.