by Al Drinkle
I begin writing this just before 5 a.m. It's a beautiful time of day when the few humans stirring might be particularly dedicated partiers, inordinately early risers, or just nocturnal. Excepting those whose vocations summon them involuntarily from their cozy beds, these hours are for the curious and the pensive. The world breathes differently in the early morning, sharing tranquil secrets with those who wish to discover them.
After some casual stretches and the donning of yesterday's clothes, I begin to slice up an apple to take with me on a sunrise adventure. On the first cut, I realize that the apple is corked. My infuriation at the frequency of this unacceptable occurrence is interrupted by a familiar sound, and I turn around to find one of my cats on the countertop, loudly dry-heaving over the gas range. I gingerly gather his spasmodically retching form and place him on the tile floor. It's time to get on the bike and go.
Everything smells better early in the morning. Aromas, like humans, are still languid and hang lucidly in the air, seemingly in measured aromatic units that one devours as much as inhales. It smells like the earth is slowly enacting a pagan exhumation of summer; these are the aromas of kept promises. There are compelling reasons for rising early at other times of year, but right now the early hours are at their most inviting. Light isn't an issue, the air is still, the colours are hypnotic and animals are friskily apathetic. It would seem that the critters embrace an unspoken solidarity with the humans who share these hours with them. They recognize in us a benign form of insanity, understanding that there is nothing to fear.
I pass by a train parked on the tracks and see a few pairs of human feet hanging from the boxcars. I veer beneath an overpass and discover more slumbering wayfarers who unknowingly share their shelter with several yellow baby geese, pecking for potential breakfast as their parents loom protectively above them.
I doubt that there's more than superficial similarities amongst those who rise so early, but the pursuit of solitude must be a common factor. And I suspect that most of us up at this hour are the kind of people whose sense of loneliness increases proportionately with the number of people that we're surrounded by - compounding humans reinforce feelings of alienation. This incredible time of day attracts seekers of various sorts, if not insomniacs with whom there must be considerable crossover. On the off chance that you encounter humanity at such an hour, it's almost guaranteed that the unwritten rule of avoiding conversation will be abided. Nobody leaves their home at 5 a.m. in pursuit of small talk.
On a parallel path, I think I spot an old acquaintance from the punk scene, walking along the river with a wasted-looking woman. I could be mistaken in my identification - I'm pedaling quickly, and it's been a lifetime since I've seen him. But just as assuredly as my auroral exploration coincides with the fading spectres of a Riesling buzz and a woeful attempt at sleep, theirs, whoever they are, denotes the conclusion of a chemical-addled evening. How nice that the dawn greets us all with unbiased adulation.
Mornings show the world at its most spritely and innocent and life seems less intimidating. It's not that obstacles are magically removed or problems solved, but in the quietude of the early morning, one's challenges are sensibly indexed and on display under the most rational light. I wonder if people who sleep late even know what an innervating tonic the early mornings can be! And yet, this morning I cross paths with a young woman whose face is stained with tears. What could have happened at this peaceful and static time of day to precipitate such emotion? Perhaps she was coping with the fact that things are exactly as terrible as she suspected them to be when she went to bed the previous evening… We've all been there.
I pause at an isolated place on the riverside where the first sunbeams of the day glisten on the Bow. My soul is constantly parched for moments like this, and I become wistful in the presence of such beauty. I think despondently about the banks of the Mosel, the Rhein and the Nahe, and how much I'm missing their powers of inspiration this Spring. I think about what a difficult week it's been for a few people who are close to me. But we can only be so "close” during this pandemic, and in addition to the Covid Blues that we all suffer from in our own way, we're still not exempt from the dejection of failed romance, acute loneliness and its morose tributaries, nor the ordinary oppression of living. Life can be hard, but even harder is to adopt the same aloof apathy that the universe sometimes seems to have for us.
There's a unique restlessness in some of us that compels us to invest our entire selves into something... anything! Thus, we perpetually expose our hearts for the breaking. But early in the morning, we are reassured that our convictions are tenable and our confidence in the bright spots justified. Besides, summer is close and the horizon is a crowded panorama of potential. I get on my bike and ride towards home. A new day has begun.
