To Staying in Bed.

Consider my glass raised.



I am a morning person. I like to wake up around the same time the sun does. It could be due to some kind of suppressed competitive nature I have yet to fully admit to, but if ever I am the last to wake up in the house, I hate it. I feel as though I have been beaten to the punch, because I wanted this precious, quiet morning to myself - uninterrupted by any of you goons' thunderous banter (mildly dramatic... but not always entirely untrue). 

Idyllic mornings consist of rainy conditions outside, hot breakfast, coffee via french press drunk from my favorite cerulean pottery mug, little to no speaking, sitting on the blue sofa adjacent to the corner window in my bedroom, breathing deeply, reminding myself of things that are Good, sometimes reading, sometimes writing, and trying to be quiet, be present. 

On a recent morning, however, I slept later than planned and having missed those fleeting hours, dared attempt a different course of action: I stayed in bed ... for quite some time. I ventured to the kitchen only to prepare my french press and cook some oats, and with my steaming breakfast and coffee in tow, hurried quickly back into the cocoon of flannel and down.

Curling up under the toasty comforter after finishing my oats, I picked up an outdated issue of Kinfolk I got on sale for $4 at Williams Sonoma (probably the only thing I have ever actually purchased from Williams Sonoma) and perused a few of the beautifully written essays and tales accompanied by stunning photos of magnificent places. Simple stories of humanity and beauty. 

For me, I have learned there is great value in beginning my day in a state of rest and imagination. And in that, I have learned those purest morning hours are not the only hours in which such a state can be experienced. And in that, I have learned sleeping in (past 8 AM) is not always in my worst interest. (As long as I have a warm, unmade bed and anthology of something Good awaiting my return)