It’s 5:20 am and I am trying, trying to get into my “writers zone” – thing is, I have company. My 8 year old is sitting criss-cross beside me the couch watching Netflix on my phone. It’s not super loud, but still. The magic of the early hour eludes me now. With the background noise and her movements, I am being pulled away, struggling to hear my inner voice.
She’s my mini-me, in character that is. Also, the middle child, so we share that experience. She’ll go with me just about anywhere, on my sunrise walks or to the grocery store.
But these precious hours, the 5 – 7 am window that I’ve painstaking carved out and ruthlessly protect, they are gold to me. I wish she had stayed in bed and kept sleeping.
Ahhh, the fact that I am writing about this, see, my mind is distracted.
“Honey, it’s too early, maybe you can go back to bed?”
“I had a nightmare”, her voice cracks and it’s clear she’s upset.
“Do you want to talk about, what happened?”
“No, I don’t want to say it, I just want to forget it.”
“What if I went to lay down with you?” I ask, knowing the risks of getting back into a warm, cozy bed. I’m quite tired today, having stayed up too late (past 10 pm!) last night. I’m yawning; I could easily drift off. The coffee hasn’t kicked in yet.
“No”, she answers softly, immersed in her show. I let it go. If we went to snuggle together, I’d likely fall back asleep, which would alter my day and cost me my writing time.
“Okay,” I kiss her forehead. Maybe she’ll talk about it later, or not, but she knows she can.
“How about you lay down there,” I point to the other end of the couch, not rudely. “You can stretch out your legs, get more comfy.” It’s a bit of a selfish request. If she moves over so does the phone and the noise, even if just a few feet further. The sound is terribly distracting.
See the magic of 5 am is the silence in the universe. In my house, the streets, nature, the last few hours before dawn are the darkest and the most serene. I prize this time so much. This intrusion isn’t welcome; even it is my own sweet. They get the other 22 hours of the day, I get these 2, and only these 2.
The other thing is, if I am going to keep my resolution, (does one “keep” resolutions, or “fulfill” them, hmmm, I’ll research this later) of writing a book, the writing needs a consistent and dedicate timeslot. I need to fit it in somewhere – 5-7 am are the only available hours.
Once the kids are awake, I start up the kitchen, breakfast, lunch and dinner planning (yes, on the days I am at home, it’s Saturday today, plus it’s the winter holidays still) I plan all 3 meals for the day at the beginning. My grandmother used to start peeling the potatoes for dinner right after breakfast – I thought it was silly. Now I do it too. Anything, absolutely anything I can get down before noon is likely to benefit from my ‘best self’, when I am sharpest and have the most energy.
This early morning isn’t coming easy. Being alert and writing at 5 am requires me to wake up some time before that, to set the kettle, start the laptop, turn on a small table lap to light my keyboard just enough so I can see it, but not so bright that is causes a glare on the screen. (My laptop keyboard isn’t backlit, and I’m not a well-trained typist. I have the location of the keys memorized, yes, for the most part I can type without looking, but it is from my memory of where my fingers need to reach, as opposed to that “typing” class style we were taught. Do they still teach typing in school? Hmmm, I don’t care, I mean, I’d be curious to know, that is all.)
I set up my space just so… thoughtfully, with the hope of increasing the odds of getting into the “writers zone”. I plan to sit facing the big patio doors, they face south. Having a straight line of sight outside, allows me to pull my eyes away from the screen occasionally and refocus them on something far off in the distance; a tree or lamppost. I like to pause my writing can glance at the sky. As the world wakes up, the hue of the horizon slowly changes. I can tell I’m getting close to sunrise. This is how I measure time. Sure, I have the clock on the right corner of my screen, I don’t look there.
So automated is this rhythm of my early mornings that I wake up without an alarm clock. My eyes open and I can feel it is time to get to work. Work is an interesting word here. I’ll explain. Until recently, and sometimes still, depending on the schedule of the day ahead, I’d use these hours to prepare for “work” work.
I use the quotation marks to signal that I am referring to the “paid labour I do outside the home” – although for me, and I have said this a million times, it really is a calling, an honour, a blessing in my life. But can one have too much of a good thing? Hmmmm. Let’s not answer that today. The point is, it’s not entirely work, all the things I do throughout the day, except maybe the administrative tasks. That said, quick-fire admin tasks are low handing fruit that offers much needed wins. They exponentially increase the odds of long term success. This is true for me, I like the small victories. (I have found the same foes my kids, by the way. Early successes in their lives, learning to ride a bike, overcoming some fear, trying a new activity and doing well, these moments have shaped their minds, made them more resilient. I can see they often enjoy challenges and the rush of victory. Okay, the opposite (defeat, rejection, failure, whatever you call it) is also a great teacher. Yikes, I am going off on tangents left, right, and centre here. Promise I am done, back to the main story.
Administrative tasks offer the satisfaction of an empty inbox and a “to do” list crowded by check marks. So when I use the early hours for work, clearing away emails, reviewing notes, preparing for upcoming meetings, and writing the occasional report, I do set myself up for success in the day. The 2 extra hours make it go far more smoothly. It’s a double-edged sword however, giving up these magic hours to work. When I add them to the eight hours of official work time, and the time spent replying to messages into the evening (no longer at my laptop by this point, but using my cellphone), these become thirteen or fourteen hour long work days.
That’s not commitment, that’s hogwash.
It’s a terrible practice and sets everyone up for failure.
Firstly, it is not sustainable, not for any human being. It leaves little time for me as person and me as a mother – the two most sacred relationships I’ve been entrusted with – with my own spirit and the spirits of my children. I prepare dinner and check my phone. I bath my kids and reply to messages. I go through the bedtime routine, tucking them in, singing songs, while scheduling upcoming meetings. They’ve said on more than one occasion, ‘mama, can you put your phone away’. I feel like a shit parent when I hear this, but I don’t know how else to manage it all.
Secondly, as I said, until recently (recently is a relative term, for me, it might be the last week or the last year – time being a funny thing) I gave the impression to myself and to others that my job was manageable. It isn’t, not without great personal sacrifice. Which is all well and good, personal sacrifice that is, I think community work and creating change are only possible with sacrifice, but what I was doing wasn’t solely sacrificing my own life / work balance, I was robbing my kids of their mama. That’s not cool. And I was robbing me of me.
Thirdly, I’ve spent the better part of the last umpteen years offering my time and talent to others. It is how I was raised, to be of service, to put myself last, to live for and through my children. The mantra of the matriarchs in my family is that once you become a mother (note, not a parent, just a mother, this is a very gendered world view), your life is no longer your own. Read that again please. Your life is no longer your own.
Sidebar: If I ever buy another couch again, it’ll be the kind where the cushions are attached. Yes removal cushions are easier to clean, spot wash and dry in the sun, but ahhhhh, the way these unattached one slide forward and I have to push them back, several times a day, it maddening. I digress because I needed to adjust the pillows, move the kitten, anyway. It’s not important, except if you’re buying a couch, heed my words.
“I wish I had a blanket?” she says to the universe within earshot of her mother, me.
“I know. Where are the blankets? I ask because I generally leave one on the couch for cuddling under.
“In the basement, we were building forts.”
“Would you like me to get it?”
“Yes please.”
“You know if you want something, you need to ask directly. People can’t read your mind.” I say this nicely, although the words sound harsh, my tone is soft.
“Yes mama. The blue one please.”
I grab two, the blue one for her, the red and white one for me. She adjusts her pillows, pulls the fluffy blanket over herself, and settles into her show again. Happy as a clam.
I put my legs back up on the ottoman, drape my blanket over them, set my laptop on top and start typing again. The kitten, Cheeks, curls up on the bridge of my legs, well, now I can’t move for a while. Within a moment she I purring than asleep. Thankfully, my coffee is within reach and the laptop is plugged in, I could be here a couple hours.
I’ve lost my train of thought.
Attempt number two to get into the “writers zone”.
Right, something about lessons of early mornings and putting in too many hours at “work”. Hmmmm, I can’t remember where I left off, so I’m going back to reread a few paragraphs to recall the story.
Right, funny (give what just happened), your life is no longer your own.
But remember, I said this was true ‘until recently’. I meant it. It is no longer true.
For the last while, I’ve learned to dedicate these early mornings to me – yes I’ve had to train / teach this to myself, very deliberately, very consciously, growing comfortable with the fact that unfinished business from 2020 has spilled into 2021. Thing is, I’m not bothered by it anymore, and I know from experience that emergencies always rise to the surface, if there are any, they’ll find me. Everything else can wait.
I’ve been reading books I enjoy (the motivational, self-help, change your life, declutter your home kind – I hear you laughing at me – it’s all good, I stand by my questionable choices), writing, so much writing. And a bit of drawing or painting, although painting is a mid-afternoon activity because I need the natural light, so here the progress is rather slow.
Oh, how I love writing.
Thus you have this blog to read, my early morning thoughts. I also feel seen and heard, which in the current state of the world, rather lonely, is a wonderful gift.
Beautiful isn’t it, how life kind of falls into place the moment we stop forcing it one way or another. My grandmother once told me that I approach everything like an army tank – she lived through several wars – this reference made more sense to her than to me. What she meant, she used to explain, is that once I set my mind or heart to something, wild horses couldn’t pull me away. I push ahead, manoeuver, perhaps adjust speed as the obstacles required me to, but I do not waiver from what I set out to do. Pot calling the kettle, might I add.
She was right about me. I have an iron-clad resolve and an almost blind determination. I am a survivor, these are my survival instincts. Thankfully, in the last years of her life and a bit contrary to her own character, she worked to soften me. With the love of a mother, she, my maternal grandmother, took over raising me after my mother died; albeit via distance and mostly through letters crossing back and forth across the ocean, she began to teach me about how I ought to start living and stop just surviving.
Yes start living.
How does one start living when all they’ve done and all they know how to do is surviving?
It’s not quite so simple.
She was a patient teacher (actually a teacher by trade). When we were together, when I’d come ‘home’, hers was the last home I’d have in my life, she’d take up the mission of dismantling the walls I had built inside and speaking to my heart.
“Dorotka, (this is the sweet, childish version of my name), zwolnij [slow down].”
She saw how very, very afraid I was of dying too soon, like my mother. I was living at double speed, trying to do as much as I could for those I loved. What if I ceased to exist and my children were left alone, as was I?
There is no more powerful a driver in life than fear. And fear had taken up nearly every part of my being. If I could think faster, move faster, out-plan, out-anticipate, out-strategize, outperform, out-deliver, maybe, just maybe, I could outrun my life? And nothing ever again would hurt me.
You can’t outrun your life. I know this now. You have to stand your ground, hold onto who you are, and let the storm come. It’s taken me decades to understand this.
When I saw her for the last time the summer before she died, a few years ago, she spoke to my anguish like no one else could.
We’d get up before sunrise together, the two early birds, fifty-nine years apart in age, and sit in the kitchen. Their kitchen was tiny, less than 50-square-feet of space to move around with a small table that could hardly seat two. She’d light the gas stove, the fire below the kettle, and we’d wait for the water to boil to make tea.
I’ll translate her words for you here, from memory.
“Dorotka, don’t be afraid. It’ll be okay you know; whatever is there on the other side, whatever comes on this side, I think it’ll be okay. Your mama is waiting, don’t rush to meet her. I’ll go soon too, and we’ll wait for you together. Remember what you told me, that a friend of yours said when she had a heart attack in her car, minutes before leaving the parking lot. She said, ‘had it happened even a minute later, I might have caused an accident, I could have died, or hurt someone else. I wouldn’t have been able to reach my phone and call for an ambulance’”.
She paused to take a laboured breath.
“Do you remember what she told you, your friend?”
“Yes, ‘nothing that happens to us doesn’t first pass through the hands of God’”. She was a very religious person, I am not, but I am a person of faith, I. I had shared this story with her years earlier, she really liked it clearly.
“Exactly, nothing, nothing will happen to you until such a time that it is meant to happen. And nothing will happen that you can’t survive. You were built to survive, so stop trying at it. Just live your life, try to find happiness, try just being.”
I took her frail, deformed hand, arthritis and advanced age had permanently curled her fingers. Her skin was thin as paper, smelling of the most beautiful moments of my life. I brought it slowly and gently to my lips and breathed her in.
I kissed it, holding the kiss for a long, long time. This is the highest gesture of respect in my culture.
She smiled at me.
We chatted for some time, peeling vegetables, planning the meals of the day.
The kids started to stir in the room down the hall, my three. I needed to breastfeed the baby, make breakfast for the other two, get to bathing my grandmother, and cleaning the house. The day was beginning.
Every day was, rather, every day is a new beginning.
Mini-me asked for upma for breakfast – a south Indian spicy porridge – rather time consuming dish, but delicious, healthy, and vegan. So I need to step away; plus the sun will rise in about 40 minutes so I need to get cooking and then get out there.
