airborne

running

I was so intrigued by the comments in yesterday’s post about shifting towards a morning habit. About writing then, and soaking up the world as the new day unfurls.

But here’s the thing that I can’t seem to get around–even though I want very much to go to bed earlier for all the reasons I mentioned in several recent posts… But the hitch is kids. Their existence in my world makes morning finite. There is no pushing on, if I’m in the groove. No additional hours that can be spent, past midnight if necessary if a project demands more time, or a story is taking me places.

When the kids wake up, they arrive: giggling, yelling, whining, squealing. They want things: snuggles, underpants, clean socks, cereal. They need things: undivided attention, clean laundry, reminders, mediation, affection. The hours hurtle on. Even if I awoke at 3am, I’d only have 3 hours until 6 when they typically wake, and 3am doesn’t look nearly as interesting from the vantage point of waking up, as it does from the perspective of going to sleep, if you know what I mean. Nearly every parent I’ve talked to has said something about the “freedom” that night affords: the opportunity to exist with one’s thoughts uninterrupted. And that is entirely what I love about the night: that it affords carrying on. Uninterrupted.

Earlier today Austin Kleon tweeted that this poem should be featured prominently on every creative’s refrigerator. I think he’s right. And I wonder, is my problem simply that I’m aiming for all three?

Is the plight of the modern creative that because we have such boundless abundance, we believe we are boundless? Our modern world offers so many choices, opportunities, options, mediums, encounters, tools, that in turn we tell ourselves we can do anything, be anything, all at once. I for one, fall for this story time and again. But time isn’t fooled. And morning, wise and new, knows better too.

So, how to shift night to morning with kids. How then? Is there some middle ground, some secret strategy? Tell me, tell me.