Yes, I am a child of the morning. I love the early hours more than any other time of day. Mornings are flush with hope; each dawn arrives as a brand-new beginning on this beautiful planet. They are silent, deep hours—carrying the lingering breeze of the night before and delivering the first light of a new day. There is something in the morning that mirrors my own soul.
I do remember hating some mornings, though. I doubt anyone could truly love a dawn that forces you from a warm bed out into gridlocked streets, rushing toward windowless offices. But everything changes when you live by the rhythm of a chicken alarm. I fall asleep to the symphony of frogs and wake to the chaotic dance of roosters almost every day. The sea is but a blind walk away; I close my eyes, dive in, and follow the fish into the newborn day.
Summer will fade eventually, I know. But have I not surrendered the heavy thoughts of what was and what will be? Whatever is, exists right now. Whatever comes later is yet to arrive—and we shall see.
Swing me into the morning light, and let the world just BE!
And sing...
Swing high, swing low
Swing to and fro
Not fast, not slow
A little swing can do more
Than anything else for you
Swing out, swing in
It's not a sin
So let's begin
You'll never get the gate if your swinging is up to date
When your one and only
Complains that he's lonely and blue
A rhythmical campaign can do more than champagne
To see him through
Swing high, swing low
Swing to and fro, not fast, not slow
(Ralph Freed / Burton Lane, 1937)
