Restoring calm when mornings wake with inner noise
For decades, I’ve gotten up from a night’s sleep wide awake and full of joy at the beginning of a new day. I love mornings. Truly, I do. I realize not everyone does, and I equally know there are others like me who agree: mornings are truly lovely.
Eager to get pen in hand, I am quick to finish my morning routine and settle in my favorite chair. Hot tea, Bible, journal.
Peace.
Quiet.
This is how I build the energy to sustain me for the balance of the day.
As I sip the tea, write and read, meditate and think and pray, I also give my eyes rest as I glance out the wide expanse of window facing the backyard forest and nearby birdfeeders I had placed there. Tender lovely little birds would frequently stop by for morning breakfast, which never helped but place a warm smile inside me.
But there have also been mornings when I wake differently.
On these days, many thoughts fill the dawn with restlessness … they march across my mind between the wake and the now.
Sometimes I argue with myself from the moment my eyes open.
Sometimes I squeeze my eyes tightly because I do not want to see the truth that waits for me once I get out of bed.
And sometimes I finally drag myself out of bed.
My dog looks up at me with her gentle face, waiting for a morning pet. When I lean down, she melts into my hands as I cradle her head. I run my fingers along the sides of her ears and down her face. She never leaves me and she keeps her eyes on mine.
On these days, I carry myself through the beginning of my routine. The house around me still in slumber, my inner world screams. My steps on autopilot: I make my bed, open the blinds, go to the bathroom and wash my face with warm water. Bleary-eyed, yet clean. The scent of the cleanser, the warmth of the water, and the small act of caring for myself give me a slight lift.
My teeth need brushing. My face feels better washed.
As my tea steeps, I fill the time: emptying the dishwasher, reviewing my daily to-do list, adding to it or marking things off, filling my dog’s dish with her food and refreshing her water.
Every second, filled with morning activities.
And something interesting can happen while I do these ordinary things: the thoughts I woke to can just as easily float away or grow louder.
I know this because it has happened.
I have woken from dreams and regretted not sitting right down to write, but I had to brush my teeth. That led to washing my face, emptying the dishwasher, feeding the dog and making my tea.
By the time I sat down, I no longer remembered the dreams from which I awoke.
I also did not recall all the thoughts that marched across my mind between the wake and the now. They, too, had vanished.
I walk through some mornings still bleeding inside.
I try not to treat the wounds. I reach for little things that act like salve: the warmth of water, the smell of tea steeping, the quiet of the kitchen.
Gentleness begins to open my heart a little.
And in the doing, calm begins to restore itself inside me.