When Lucy was a baby I would get up at the shriek of dawn to go walk with my neighbor. I still had close to an hour to myself when I got back and I took to reading Proust. It was the most decadent thing I could manage. I probably only read two or three pages each morning but they were rich and gratifying. I think Proust is probably the truffle oil of literature.
I read Proust because no one else here really cared about it and no one else was around to influence me at that wee hour. It was a little piece of my former self I was able to resurrect.
I'm thinking of this right now because I happen to be awake when no one else is. It's an Easter-Eve miracle. The sun is coming up and turning the trees pink. The house is quiet - it's just me and my tea.
Having this peace at the beginning of the day is somehow different from the night. At night I'm still processing all the things that have been coming at me, and getting the laundry done. For some reason having an errant morning alone feels like comp time.
This morning I am not reading Proust. I'm just watching the light change outside and observing a handful of birds going about their day. I hear rustling in the next room and soon I will have one or two sleepy, snugly, small people in my lap. And then our day will start.