The dawn's early light

My husband is not a morning person. In fact, he would say that getting up early is for the birds. And, of course, he'd be right. Every bird worth its weight in feathers knows that the early morning is the best time to harvest worms and to sing its ode to the dawn's early light. While I have no interest in competing with the birds for their morning grubs--as long as they leave enough for the garden--I am, nonetheless, one of the flock when it comes to paying tribute to the dawn.

According to the latest evidence in sleep research, this penchant for the dawn makes me a "lark," a morning person, someone who feels she is capable of her best work in the morning. Those who burn the candle at the other end of the day are known as "owls" because they, like their nocturnal namesakes, tend to be more productive in the evening. I imagine that if I talked to enough "owls," I would find that, like me, they have a special reverence for their particular time of day. The sounds, the colors, the way the air feels, all contribute to marking the time of day that makes us feel most alive.

At the holidays, I am up with all good bakers at the beginning of twilight before sunrise to set rolls for the day's feasting. This is a tradition I learned from my mother, who learned it from hers, and I have dutifully adopted and adapted the practice as a way to honor the idea of celebration laid down by the mothers in my family before me, larks all. Perhaps my preference for the dawn is no more mysterious than this. It is a time of communion with my history--and, yes, my present and, indeed, too, the future as far as what the impending day will bring with it. At work in my kitchen at this hour--the rest of the house in both shadow and slumber--my hands are busy while my mind enjoys a state of quiet reflection. I guess you could say that in my kitchen like this at dawn, I am at prayer.

Of course, this is one of the reasons Mysore practice appealed to me immediately. Traditionally, the practice begins before dawn, before sunrise, before a new day takes hold. Perfect for a lark like me. For me, yoga practiced at dawn highlights the silence, the serenity, the devotional aspects of this rich and ancient art. I understand that some people may be uncomfortable with the notion of yoga as a devotional practice. It places yoga too close to a religion, and there are those involved in the battle of defining what a "true religion" looks and sounds and smells and feels like who might label me a blasphemer. But, many practices not traditionally considered religious can be--and often are--devotional practices. Raising children, teaching a class, being a friend, a sister, a mother, a wife, preparing dinner or rolls or perfecting the recipe for your husband's favorite apple pie. Devotional all, I'd say, just as Rudyard Kipling said in his poem "When Earth's Last Picture is Painted":

And only The Master shall praise us, and only The Master shall blame;

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,

But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They are!

Yoga is a contemplative art, and it feels right to practice at dawn. Some mornings my journey to the Shala feels long and arduous, in danger of being abandoned countless times before I reach my car. I alone am awake in our dark, silent home. My husband and my youngest are fast asleep. Sometimes the pull to return to bed to join them and to wake again at a more reasonable hour is very strong, indeed. Nevertheless, most mornings I prevail because I know that beyond my warm, quiet, dark home is a studio gathering up other like-minded contemplatives who are ready to meet themselves on their mats once again.

As I have established in previous blog posts, we ashtangis are ego-challenged beasts. I like this particular flaw of ours because it keeps us unequivocally human and, as such, likewise capable of moments of great humility and humanity. What I really do love about my fellow ashtangis is how we show up together before dawn--when the owls and the other larks are either home in bed or slowly making their preparations for the day ahead--roll out our mats, and commit to the rigor and routine of this practice one more time, today like yesterday and the day before that. When the Priestess of the town of Orphalese asks the peripatetic prophet in Kahlil Gibran's book of the same name (The Prophet), to speak to them of prayer, the prophet tells them, "When you pray you rise to meet in the air those who are praying at that very hour, and whom save in prayer you may not meet. Therefore, let your visit to that temple invisible be for naught but ecstasy and sweet communion." It is a blessing then for this lark to have a visible place for such singular practice and communion. I am grateful for that day--seven years ago now--that I stumbled upon a Mysore class and in the twilight hour learned how to rise to meet myself and to share with my fellow devotees an ancient, holy communion not unlike the early morning communion I share with my family of mothers on feast days.