The one thing that makes mornings almost bearable
Me vs the world's most overrated event.
#5. Sunrise
Why do people make such a big deal of watching the sunrise? It literally happens every day. If there were some remote part of planet Earth where the sun didn’t rise in the morning, that would be a lot more interesting to me.
But then again, it was on my list of things I’d never done before, wasn’t it? I’d lived through 12,929 sunrises and yet never watched a single one.
In practice, it wasn’t as easy as I’d expected. First of all, I had to find the right place - a flat horizon with no buildings, trees or hills in the way. I had to be facing the right direction - the east (or is it the west?). I had to pick a day with a cloudless sky, which is hard enough in London (especially with all the chemtrails these days - thanks, Bill Gates). Hardest of all, I had to wake up before 10:00am. At 6:45am to be precise, according to Google.
But it turns out Google and I have a different definition of sunrise. As I rubbed my reluctant eyes and wormed my way out of bed, I paused. Something outside was breaking through the mental morning fog.
‘Wait. What’s that noise? Is that… birdsong? Oh for fuck’s sake!’
It was already starting to get light outside. The sky was a deep navy blue - not black. I threw on my joggers, a jumper and a thick parka and legged it outside.
Under the dark sky it was grey. Everything was grey. I was surrounded by a fine mist - a cold, silver soup pouring over the concrete streets and shuttered shops of north London, halogen streetlights punctuating like little buoys. It was refreshing to feel it nipping my skin first thing in the morning. My breath hung suspended in the air.
I had the world to myself. There was not a single soul around - just me, and a lonely pheasant, strutting away, as I crossed the threshold into Ruislip woods.
I could see the sky to my side (presumably the east (or is it the west?)), glowing with a faint gradation from navy to orange. Reaching an old wooden bench, at the top of a frost-kissed hill, I rested my weary legs and watched. It was getting brighter, the sky more amber at the horizon.
But, I couldn’t really see it, because of the trees and that, so, you know, I gave up. What’s the point?
Heading back, and feeling dejected, I kept my eyes on the frozen dirt, crunching the ice maliciously with my boots.
But something was saying good morning. To my right, I caught a glimpse of it. The sun. Winking at me, peeping over the thick copse. I could already feel his warm rays blanketing me. There was something magical about it. Everything would be alright. I rested on a nearby tree stump and greeted him. I closed my eyes, turned my face heavenwards, and gratefully let him come on my face. (Grow up.)
The great bowl of sky above began to dye a brilliant light blue, expanding across its surface from east to west (or is it west to east?). It was not so grey after all – and the heavy mist sighed away under the loving warmth of the sun. There was not a single cloud in the cobalt sky. I thought of childhood holidays in Tenerife. An airplane sailed through the ether, leaving wakes as it went (give it a rest, Gates).
Life was returning to the earth, with a choir of cheeping and tweeting and the hammering of woodpeckers. From my tree stump, I watched two little birds chasing one another, singing and flirting, under the gentle gaze of the perfect golden circle.
The frieze was ethereal - a connection to something larger, a grounding in nature, in beauty. It was a little moment of magic. And yet most of us miss it, everyday. We wake up with beeping alarms and turn immediately to our phones and television sets.
I felt sad for the 12,929 times I missed this. From now on, I swore, I would say good morning to the sun every single day.
Epilogue
I didn’t.