Some mornings I wake up and my words are right there in bed beside me. Then on some mornings, I find them sitting comfortably on the couch or hanging around the coffee maker. And on other mornings I find them walking around outside getting a taste of the cool morning air. And there are those hard mornings when I only find them when I set down to type. But the morning words are almost always there somewhere.

I’ve tried writing the day before so that it’s done and ready to go in the morning, but the morning words are the morning words, and they feel and taste different than words crafted in the heat and tiredness of the afternoon or evening. Afternoon and evening words almost always feel bookish, and the sentences feel stilted and tired like I’m trying too hard. Of course, there are times when I want the words to sit and marinate overnight but they’re rare. I don’t usually write in anger, but I have written things that might give offense. So, I try to pause when I do.

So, morning is my time. I like to be the first camper up. I like to rise before dark. Be the first to walk through the house. The day is fresh. The cloak of circumspection is wrapped around me. I am at peace. With myself. With the world. With the universe. I am ready to see what the day has to bring. I am ready with a warm embrace and a smile. I am ready. I have survived the night. I have dreamed. I am now ready to live.