When I was growing up, everyday--without fail--my dad would JOYFULLY wake me up at 6:15am to get ready for the day. He and my mom had already been up for at least an hour before this preparing for their days. My dad would open the door and enthusiastically exclaim that it was, “MORNING!” My dad was so excited to start the day. HAPPY for it, even. And all I remember being was...tired.
I have never asked my dad if there was a day that he didn’t want to get out of bed. He celebrated mornings like I celebrate my birthday (and I love my birthday). I think he found it an amusing challenge to try to get my brother and me to participate in his delightful morning mood as we grogley made our way to the breakfast table.
Asking my dad if there was a day that he just “didn’t want to” seems like the dumbest question in the entire world. Because with a positive morning attitude like his, CLEARLY, there was never a day in all of his years that he “didn’t want to.”
As such, I always feel like a failure when I’m not awake by 6am. Or at the gym by 6am. Or completed a full day’s work by 6am. Needless to say, I’ve felt like a failure a lot over the years. I’ve had more days than not that have begun after 6am. Since arriving in France, I think all of them having begun after 6am, unless you count the days I was awake from 3am to 5am adjusting to the time difference. But I don’t count those as successes.
Today, however, I had an “early” morning. Not 6am early, but I was moving at 7:40am, which is progress, and I will take it as a win. There is a market that is on the street outside my front door every day except Tuesdays. I had yet to purchase anything from any of the stalls because I wasn’t really sure how it all worked, and my French is terrible.
For the past week, I’d been eyeing up these beautiful plates of raspberries. Today, I finally stopped at the stall, pointed, and said, “Un (which means ‘one’ in French).” To my delight, the man poured the plate of raspberries into a bag, I gave him my money, he said, “Merci beaucoup,” and I was on my way. It was like magic!
Market on Boulevard de la Croix-Rousse. (Can you see the plates of raspberries on the left? So beautiful.)
As I strolled down Boulevard de la Croix-Rousse munching on my fresh raspberries, I realized that no one--and I mean, NO ONE--is out and about at 8am on a Sunday morning in Lyon.
OK, in fairness, there were a handful of us wanderers out and about. In addition, there were some people sitting at outdoor cafés enjoying wine and beers, which I have to admit threw me off guard a bit. I’m from Wisconsin, and I’m all about early drinking, but at 8:30am on a Sunday morning? Is there a sporting event that I don’t know about that I should be tailgating for? Or is this like pre-gaming before church where every Sunday morning you get together at 8am for a pint of lager before heading to Mass?
Regardless, this morning’s short walk around my neighborhood has been one of my most enjoyable by far. I forgot what it’s like to watch a city slowly wake up...to see it yawn and stretch and quietly welcome the gentle flow of visitors.
This guy gets early mornings.
It is mornings like this that make me understand why my dad was so joyful at the crack of dawn. Although he has never strolled the streets of Lyon at daybreak, I think he was trying to teach my brother and me that there is a specialness to mornings that only the few who are awake get to experience.
I may not be great at mornings (yet), but I’ll keep practicing. Who knows what will happen?