On Waking Early

      Granted, “early” is relative. One man’s “why am I up so early” is another man’s “I’m a lazy slob.” When I worked in opera as a coach and rehearsal pianist, I cursed the days that began at the ungodly hour of 10 a. m. Though we were guaranteed a 12-hour night (that’s twelve hours from the end of the previous day’s rehearsals, not twelve hours from the time you actually lay your music-spinning head on the pillow), 10 a. m. meant for me rising at 7—insult to injury, considering how long it always took to wind down the night before from the day’s labor. It wasn’t just the physical fatigue, though that was enough; it was the intense mental concentration of coaching singers one-on-one, and/or playing long rehearsals under the added pressure of following a sometimes very exacting conductor. Both body and brain were oatmeal by 10 p. m. You’d think I would just conk out as soon as I got home, but, ironically, my body would be too tired and my mind too full of residual music to sleep. Morning was the absolute worst time of day.
     After fifteen years of the late-to-bed-late-to-rise opera life, I followed a call to religious life and entered a Catholic monastery, where we retired every night at 9:30 and woke at 5:20. Surprisingly, it didn’t take me long at all to adjust to my new schedule—if you rise at such an early hour, it’s easy to fall asleep at night, and the busyness of monastic life is different from the busyness of operatic life; where the latter is physically and mentally exhausting, the former is oddly restorative. The monastic horarium is very structured; every minute of the day is accounted for, even times for recreation and rest. I found myself actually being grateful for the sameness of the days; yet there was always variety in the sameness; each day’s liturgy gave a different tenor to the routine. The most surprising thing of all was that I actually came to love the morning with all its promise and newness. Between morning Office and Mass, there were about forty minutes for private prayer/meditation, to be done wherever one felt was most conducive to this holy task. If the weather allowed, I would make my meditation in the woods, where the nascent sunlight would filter through the saplings lining the enclosure wall and create natural “stained-glass windows.” There, in that light reminiscent of His resurrection, I would let the Spirit lead me where it willed. Morning became a true renewal and reawakening for mind and soul.
      Now, away from both opera house and cloister, I have compromised somewhat, rising at 6:30. There are no woods in which to contemplate God’s handiwork and celebrate the gift of a new, fresh day; I can’t take meditative walks in the depressed neighborhood in which I now live; but I’ve made my bedroom a monastic cell of sorts, and always devote the first hour of my day (and the last, as well) to prayer. Morning is still, as it was in the monastery, my time for garnering strength from Him Who is my strength. But every once in a while during my meditation, a rogue thought flits through my mind: how different my mornings are now from my old opera life routine of cigarettes and grumpiness!