I woke up this morning feeling a little hungover.
It was early and dark and disorienting. I forgot where I was and felt lost. My head was foggy and my eyesight was unclear. I rattled around inside my tin can for a few minutes before things straightened out. I put on cozy, early morning clothes. I made coffee and tidied up my kitchen. I began to focus on my day’s next steps without needing to take any big strides. I also wondered about my hangover.
I haven’t had a drink for a while. I’ve been living pretty clean – drinking my water and moving my body and getting my sleep. With these things being true, I was puzzled by my morning haze. I reverse-engineered my days looking for an answer. And I may have found something: I think it’s the stupid time change.
The early darkness has me confused. My physical, mental, and emotional rhythms have been disrupted. My body isn’t ready for bed at bedtime and it’s not wholly ready to wake up at wake up time. There’s no alignment between my schedule and the clock. The hours don’t fit. They don’t feel right. Time is a distortion which leaves me unsure and off-balance. It feels fake.
But, I know it’s not. Engaging my literal mind, I can understand my goofy hangover. I can even accept it. Reluctantly, but not unkindly.
I saw a wonderful sunrise the other day. It was the wrong time for this, but that didn’t impact the colors. I sat in my dad’s black chair by my big window in my bedroom and watched the day begin in glorious fashion. The mountain tops glowed with deep reds and the alive hues of ripe oranges. The shadows darkened the foothills on the backside of the sun’s light. I sat and observed it all. I didn’t look at my watch. The time didn’t matter. Beauty shows up on its own clock, I suppose.
The same thing happened at sunset. I was sitting in my yellow chair in my living room when a stray ray of golden light pulled my eyes to the west. I turned my head and then stood up and went outside to my deck. I stood and watched the colors again. The day was cloudy, but in a sliver of sky between the clouds and my island across the sea’s deep channel, was an opening. And this was where my sunset lived. It didn’t last long, but it didn’t need to. I felt it and that was all that mattered. I returned to my chair a little differently. Such is the power of sunrises and sunsets.
Perhaps these observations are willful constructions designed to make me feel better about the dark, short days. But maybe they’re also true. Maybe time is really just an idea. Maybe it’s not really real, at least in the ways we measure it, or maybe we measure it wrong. Maybe the sunrise and the sunset are worth setting our own clocks for. Maybe witnessing the painted skies and feeling their pull is worth opening our eyes for – in the early morning or in the early evening. I suppose I can’t get too mad when I think about it this way. I also know that soon enough the days will grow again.
In the meantime, the sun will rise and the sun will set. Its colors will stretch and glow and rest softly on my cold waters. I won’t need to know what time it is when this happens. It won’t matter. Things that take our attention away from all of our striving and moving and becoming are probably important. They may be divine or at least touch its edges. It sure feels this way sometimes. And feeling this way is probably how we’re supposed to feel. And it’s probably worth waking up for or stopping in our urgent steps to see what’s there – in the sky outside of our windows. It’s pretty nice.
Dave Markwell is a life-long Des Moines liver and lover. Former owner of Waterland CrossFit and the Waterland Arcade, Dave uses his unique story-telling voice to help small businesses tell a better story, and his love for people to help folks live bigger and better lives. For more info, check out his website: wordsbydave.net
