Morning

March 11

4.30 a.m.

The dark has gone as the near-full moon waxes. Birdsong in surround sound. I read a poem about kindness. The sun when it comes is a watercolour primrose. A Japanese start to its day.

March 13

4.08 a.m.

Woken by full moon and birdsong streaming through the doors. March is known as the sap moon or worm moon, signalling warming soil where worms re-emerge and bring migrating birds back to feed. The kitchen smells of scented narcissi. Spring is very close. The sky is shrugging off its winter coat, full-on streaming sunrise.

March 15

3.50 a.m.

Henri has to get up at 4 a.m., leave the house at five, so of course I wake early, the same with any flight day, birthday, Christmas Day. While she packs, I pootle about, making breakfast, running her bath. Two blackbirds are locked in a song contest, early geese and swans fly by, plaintive calls of long haul. The ranunculus in the jug look like a kid’s painting. The 5.30 a.m. sky is streaked with pink lipstick air trails. Henri is not the only one to fly.

March 17

4.45 a.m.

I am lying diagonally on the bed, my sleeping legs seeking my absent wife. Kentish Town is marked out in birdsong, trees hosting answering calls, like echoes in a canyon, beacons on a cliff. A dawn dialogue, the tribal chat. I wonder whether they’ve paired yet or is it like ducks on the canal: five males for every anxious female. The blackbird boundaries are hardening for the breeding season. From now until July their small town territories will be fiercely defended. As yet the call feels melodic rather than aggressive.

By 6 a.m. I am sowing beans and nasturtiums at the allotment at the top of Hampstead. The hill is an avenue of birdcall. One sings from scaffolding profiled against the breaking day. The sunrise catches the willow branches. The pink magnolia is coloured bubblegum. By 7.30 a.m. I am home, elated, making breakfast. Soon the rest of the house will wake.

March 18

5.15 a.m.

I have been up extra early reading ‘Love after Love’ by Derek Walcott, who has just died. Then into Seamus Heaney, as it was St Patrick’s Day yesterday. Henri calls from upstairs. She is having trouble sleeping. I climb into bed and curl into her. The poetry of quiet breath as her rhythm slows.

March 21

5.21 a.m.

Blue sky, spring dawn; we are past the equinox (equal night) now; for the first time in six months the day will be (just) longer than the dark. The sun creeps up behind its temporary home. The tower block lit with hope. Crows shout their welcome, magpies mock. Early light catches the rosemary flowers in the window box. Still before 7 a.m. and the sun has real warmth. A day to sow salad seed.

March 22

5.03 a.m.

Turner-esque streaky sky. The neighbour’s cat comes in off the roof, scratching at the door. She doesn’t want to stay, she doesn’t want to talk. She trots through the flat, down three flights and sits impatient, calling to be let out into the street. I watch for a few moments, see she is safe and mourn the days she came to stay.

My mornings create space to let my mood materialise, listen to myself without distraction. Like a flower adjusting to the sun, knowing which way I want to face. The room adjusts, too, takes on a glow, the flowers take on a different tone: green stems stand out in red.

The sky’s reflected in the western window, mirroring the morning. Like a planet with two suns, bathing me in ambient light. It is not, I think about what you do in the early morning – though there are more opportunities with extra hours – it is about giving yourself me-moments, the simple gift of time. Liberated from urgency, revealing the joy of being you, unleashed like a lurcher in a meadow, all in your front room. It mostly comes with sunrise. And it’s still only 6.30 a.m.

March 25

4.33 a.m., Denmark

First, to light the fire (as always), then time for tea. By 5 a.m. the blackbirds sing. I wonder whether they have a Scandinavian accent. Within moments the hedges are alive, my tea mug steams, the flames lick at the logs. Within half an hour it’s seven degrees outside, a full twelve up on yesterday. It feels like this is the end of the frost. I am sowing spring flower seed. No sunrise through the trees today, a slow creeping in of dawn. By 5.45 a.m. there is a smear on the east horizon. Light is coming fast. I can see my writing on the page. Ink. No computer screen here. The last day of winter light. Tonight the clocks spring forward. The sun rises, silvered. A palest gold picks out the pennant on a neighbour’s flagpole. The birds chatter. The woodpecker drums.

March 26

4.06 a.m., Denmark

First day of summer, two hours on from GMT. The eastern sky has a platinum tint, newly shiny. It’s quiet, still, no sound from the sea. Within an hour, birdsong is everywhere, with many on the move. The Arctic terns are leaving, the lapwings have arrived. Resident crows, the finches, tits, all compete in the choir. I wish I knew more of their songs. Light softens as the temperature drops. Quickly down to two degrees. In an incoming sea mist the thrush song is suddenly isolated, the collared doves cacophonic.

March 27

5.05 a.m., London, back to being dark

The extra summer hour in the evening has robbed my morning light. Backwards, forwards, as though we think we have control of time. The day is on hold, you can still wake and see the sunrise. It is easier now it is later, at least for a week or two. More time to quietly contemplate, more time to write in screen light. Though we have just made later earlier, the opportunity to step outside time is still on offer if we want to slow down time. The 7 a.m. neighbour leaves his door at 6.30 a.m. today. The sun is quickly catching its stolen hour. Rising hidden now behind a new building. Sky trails bomb the tower block. A palette of blues and electric oranges, rich like Rubens.

March 31

5.05 a.m.

Crazy birdsong all around, everyone joins in. The magpies across the street pairing now, either renewing their courtship or making friends. Multiple mating calls the order of the day. In Denmark they are mostly comically in twos, seabirds too, and gulls. Flirting, flying, aware of the need to attach. I am almost anxious to get the early bus, the seed peas downstairs call for soil. It is the time of growth, of new life, of seed spilled and spread and germination. It seems I share spring urgency. In the garden a cat calls, deep and intent.

My morning: Jane Domingos

First, could you tell me a little about yourself?

I am Jane, born 1964. I like to describe myself as a ‘creative’. I have been able to observe and draw accurately as long as I can remember and took the ability for granted until relatively late in life. I have excess creative energy that excites and frustrates in equal measure.

What time do you wake up (and why)?

I wake up before any alarms go off in the house, usually around 6 a.m. but it can be 5 a.m. For the past two years I’ve been waking up at the time my father died. He confounded everybody by living three weeks without sustenance beyond the day they expected him to die. I had sat all night with him the day he finally passed away. It was early morning in the care home and the day staff had just arrived. It was as if Dad took all the paraphernalia of the night including the medics and staff and all manner of other night creatures with him. Never has the contrast between the night and day been so stark for me. It was August and dawn had happened unnoticed behind the thick blackout curtains of his institutional room. Daylight seemed too sudden and the business of a new day too soon. It took me a couple of weeks to realise I was waking at the time of his death.

A similar thing had happened as a child after finding my elderly and ill grandmother passed away one morning. I’d gone in with her cup of tea and found her cold. For a couple of years after I would wake up suddenly at four fifteen every morning and stare at my door expecting someone to come in. My bedroom was always dark, being fitted with 1970s dark brown velvet curtains. My imagination ran wild and I wondered if maybe that had been the time she died.

Do you have a morning ritual?

On waking I always look first towards the natural light, which is usually a window. For several years we had a bedroom that faced north but I would leave the door ajar so that the morning light would fall through from a landing window on the other side of the house. I would look at this light rather than the window in the room and on a sunny morning the sunlight would be prettily refracted through an old cut-glass doorknob. Even in a room with a heavily curtained window I will seek out a chink of daylight before doing anything else.

I then check my phone for the time, news headlines and any notifications. I try hard at this point to resist the urge to click on anything. I go to the bathroom but have rarely committed to actually ‘getting up’ early. I think I used to feel slightly worried about being up and about before anyone else in the house or maybe worried that I wasn’t getting enough sleep. On occasions when I have woken early enough and the glow in the eastern sky looks promising of a good sunrise or there is frost or snow on the ground then I’ll dress properly and head out for a walk through streets or over fields. Occasionally I drive to a spot where I particularly want to see the dawn working its magic.

We recently moved to a house with a smaller garden and a fox lair. I look for them out the window on rising and if they are there or if I am hopeful they will be there at some point, then I silently make my way down an extension to the rear and side of the house that takes me to within a few feet of where they are playing or sniffing for food. They seem oblivious to me standing at the window and I watch enthralled, their coats and eyes particularly stunning in the dawn light.

How does being awake early affect your life?

Being awake early forces me to acknowledge my individuality. I always feel energised and, unless particularly in the depths of a depression, hopeful the new day will bring good things. It is a time of much internal dialogue. For me, watching the sun rise or set causes an emotion I don’t feel at any other time. Finally, at some point I experience a kind of disappointment when I realise the sun is up above the clouds and we are fully lit – the illumination has been rapid but subtle.

What time do you sleep?

Lights out for many years has been 1.30 a.m. I worry it is too late. At night I value time alone after everyone else has gone to sleep and find it amazingly productive. I write thoughts down and make lists for the day ahead. I check my diary.

Does your sleep vary through the year?

Whether it’s winter or summer I always feel a need to be out of doors if the sun is out. I really don’t like grey summer days and feel angry at something but don’t know what. In the winter I accept the gloom and feel quite happy to busy myself with work or curl up with a book. Nightfall in the winter excites me as much as daybreak in the summer.

Has your sleep pattern changed?

When the children were young I would start work after they went to bed and could easily work through to 2 a.m. and still be up early for the school run. Now that I am older and since being ill I fall asleep in the evening.

Is the light important?

It is vital. Apart from needing sunlight for health and wellbeing, as an artist it helps me to understand the world. Strong directional light is what transforms an object from appearing two-dimensional to three-dimensional. Seen in sunlight the world pings into focus with depth and distance and a richness of colour. However tired, I am always reluctant to sleep if the sun is shining.

What do you like least about being awake early?

There isn’t anything I don’t like about being awake early. I know I am free to crawl back into bed at any point I choose.

What do you like best about being awake early?

Having a good night’s sleep is a recharge of your batteries. Having a good night’s sleep and being awake at dawn is the icing on the cake – a lithium battery as opposed to alkaline.

How would you sum up your thoughts on your mornings in 100 words or less?

On a good day, and preferably a sunny one, mornings are a fresh start, a new opportunity. Energised, I feel ready and able to tackle anything and I look forward to creating something new. Joe Wright’s 2005 film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice is a family favourite. The final scene, as the lovers are drawn into the new day before the world is awake, nails dawn beautifully. Rising sun, pale lemony light, dawn chorus, a meadow, dissipating mist, clarity of thought and vision, hope on the horizon, the promise of something new, and love, of course, always love.

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