It is summer in New Jersey. It is the best. It is splendid. And the mornings, better still.
I get up early to feed the cats, who have been loudly complaining since dawn about the service around here. I walk barefoot in my pajamas through my garden, dodging sharp acorn-hats, checking to see that nothing has happened to my plants since yesterday evening, when I put them all to bed. The Hydrangeas, because of all the rain this year, are OFF THE HOOK gorgeous — a loud drum roll of bright cascading blue. The cat mint is fading somewhat, but the daisies are having hysterical fits of crazy beauty.
My dog doesn't even open one eye when I walk past him. He pretends not to hear me. He pretends that we've never met. He's terrified that I'm going to make him get off the couch and go for a walk. (He is not a morning person, my dog. I suspect that when I'm not looking, in the middle of the night, he moonlights somewhere across town as a bartender. He will gradually begin acknowledging my existence around 10am.) My husband, who also keeps bartender's hours, doesn't stir, either. The world hasn't tracked me down yet. Nobody needs me — except the cats, and that's easy. No phone calls will come in, no urgent emails must be investigated, and no emergency-that-is-not-an-emergency will demand my verdict. I haven't made any mistakes yet today. The day still has that fresh new-car smell. It's a blackboard with nothing written on it yet. It's a brand new empty diary.
The morning hours, people. The holy of holies. The earlier you get up, the more of them you have. This is when you write a book. This is when you map out your life. This is when you go for a run, or, more likely, don't. This is when you pick those blueberries before the sun gets too hot, or when you boldly commit to lazily reading a very important non-essential clothing catalogue. If I had my way, all day long it would be morning. My whole life would be happy to be morning forever, if only that could be arranged.
Have a beautiful one, friends.