Today’s protracted autumn sunrise starts noticeably further south. Just as in the summer the sun’s journey begins and ends further north so now with the approach of winter it slips south, the original snow flake.
I sense the night releasing its grip and by six there is light squeezing it way past the bedroom curtains. This is the waking hour. It has taken me years to appreciate this part of the recovery process, wandering aimlessly through the tail end of dreams into consciousness. Gone are the days when in my thirties I would leap from bed the instant my eyes opened, impatient to get started, the early bird determined to catch the worm. Contentment has dowsed the eager flames of haste and I now have time to savor the moment and choose what I would like to achieve in the approaching daylight hours.
By seven and without switching on a light I can see my way down stairs. Outside no a breath of wind, silent apart from the rhythmical roar of waves drifting up across machair and crofts. The narrow band of dawn glows orange sandwiched between the silhouetted land and sober sky, Sunrise will be a brief affair.
Taking out warm riddled ashes, embers glowing, revived in the cool fresh air. Beneath the muscular underbelly of clouds the colour has drained from the horizon. Returning outside to refill the coal scuttle and heave in a sack of peat the sky has split ragged with hope that the sun will indeed make an early appearance. The friendly robin chirps its greeting, impatient that I start my day in the garden, disturbing ground and insect life.
Just before eight the school bus passes and shortly after the light begins to soften the cloud cover. Today will be a good day.
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