Lifting the head. Getting it up off the horizontal. Looking around.
Yes. It’s all about that isn’t it? Throughout life.
You wake up in the morning. Pick that head up off our pillow and have a look see.
If it was possible to see right away.
For years, as a child, I’d climb out of bed in the dark. Get into the clothes I’d set out the night before – dressing by the light leaking through a crack of the bathroom door. I’d then pull on a coat, or whatever was needed for the outdoors. Run through the pitch dark towards the lit barn in the distance.
And jump on my horse, all saddled by my dad, who preceded me by fifteen minutes. The two of us would set out, leaving the light of the barn. Into the dark. And witness on horseback it’s slow dissipation into light of day.
It was every weekday of the year. The weather varied. The amount of time spent in darkness shifted throughout the year. But not the routine.
That was then. Years later, no riding. I get up early. I go outside right away – as has been my custom.
Some things don’t change.
There’s something about that time of day for me. First thing. To very quickly leave the house.
And witness how every day the darkness leaves. How every day it gives way to light. Every day.
Every day. But like a fresh discovery. Every time.
After lifting my head.