Immediately as I stepped out my front door, I felt it. Morningness.
"Morningness" isn't a word, of course, and it goes without saying - yet of course, by saying this I am nevertheless saying it - that with every day that comes as naturally as has been done for eons and eras, we witness a morning. Well, 'we' also should be stipulated to mean the collective best known as humankind since not all of us are awake to actually bear witness to this event. But anyways: morningness. Every morning, technically, is a morning. (WOW - full marks for genius). And yet, this morning, something differed, something that made me immediately think 'yes finally, this is morning'.
I am a morning child. I was born in the quiet sunshine of a quiet morning, and that may or may not have anything to do with my being a morning person. I will admit that despite this assertion, I usually do have to force myself to open my eyes, and pull myself out of bed. But that shall be explained in good time.
And that good time is now. I don't consider 'morningness' to be what happens in the cold, dark, grimy and gloomy mornings of the North American winter. Ugh. Ok, that said, new point to note: I am a summer child. Born in the teetering warmth that is already tipping over to welcome the cooler Autumn, that's me. But then agian, Spring is my favourite season. Yeah, confusing you with all these random observations?
To the point: this morning I stepped outside, and I was not ambushed by the frigid fingers of unbearable cold wind that had, for the last few months, clawed itself at me, trying to get a hold on my warmth; seeping through my 109480194 layers, sliding under my hoods, slipping into my boots, clutching onto tendrils of hair escaping under its onslaught. No sirree, none of that today.
Today, there was a quiet peace. I almost felt like I was stepping out into a beautiful summer day, because the wind was not howling, and there was a stillness that I almost forgot could exist outside. I walked down my driveway and didn't feel the treacherous slippery ice below. Slowly, almost holding my breath while taking all this in, the bubble of ecstasy grew. And grew:
For up in the sky, was colour. Fuschia intermingling with clementine tangerine oranges, flirting with tendrils of white and sky blue. Splashed out far and wide, and not one bit ashamed of itself. Which, I do say, it should be, for having hid itself from me all these months! But, my word, it was simply beautiful.
I almost danced a jig.
