As a mother, running a household, I interject.
· Early to rise means early to bed. Early to bed means leaving much unfinished.
· Insomnia, anxiety, whatever things one might take pills for in the evenings, lets one drift through alarm clock warnings.Waking up late pisses on one’s chances for “cheerful.”
· Rising early for alone time requires silence that’s near-to-impossible to pull off in an apartment or an old creaky house. If one has a dog, the dog will always wake no matter how quiet one is; it will whimper to be let out to pee as one makes coffee.
· More often “early to rise” only means the other work starts sooner. To-do lists find one easily, first thing (as one has often planned it) and so kills one’s inspiration. Even without the penned to-do lists, the washer and dryer – which have sat quietly all night – seem now to whisper nasty things about wrinkles and mildew.
· Some kids – even teenagers – are naturally early risers, and they steal one’s writing devices to check their Facebook and play music videos. And toddlers have a lot to do in the mornings that requires one’s undivided attention (like sitting on the potty).
· To walk before the sun's up would mean one would need to carry a flashlight and an effective protective device and a cell phone because the world has mostly succeeded at convincing one that the world is dangerous and one is truly vulnerable.
· Work commutes mean out the door very early. Drives steal one’s otherwise personal time. It’s hard to take notes while driving, and kids lose things like hand-held recording devices.
· Sometimes, one has to live on just enough money to keep several chickens alive. All these chickens must be clothed and feed and taught to live within the fence line.
· "Enough to feed a chicken" means qualifying for free lunches and welfare and accepting handouts when they're given. Teenagers wear the stigmas that come along with such things burned into their foreheads.
· And the Writing Pen is often unruly and asks more and more of a mother as a writer and, meanwhile, back in reality, things pile up when one has been elsewhere, lost in words and stories and visions. All of those piled up things have a way of reshuffling one’s direction, over and over again. Alas, one's morning walk is a complication.· The barnyard is demanding. This one doesn’t like playing rooster. And writing can makes one feel more like a dirty fox with dark intentions - a time stealer.
Mary, not this one on this day or any near day in the future.
For now, all I have are my damn sweet, late evenings.
