The day being born

There is something different about seeing a day begin, and most of us never really do. We wake up when the day is already underway, the alarm goes off, the lights come on, the phone starts asking for our attention, and before we have properly opened our eyes we are already somewhere in the middle of things.

I am usually awake much earlier than that. On the Isle of Man, the difference between summer and autumn makes it particularly obvious. In June, the sun can rise before five in the morning. By September it is closer to seven, and by October the mornings have become something else again. I notice it because I walk my dogs early, whatever the season, and there is nothing quite like watching a sunrise like this one with them beside me, no phone, nothing to check, just the sky doing what it does.

At this time of year the darkness lasts a little longer, and then the sky starts to change. First there is barely any difference at all. Then a little colour appears somewhere on the horizon, the outlines of things become visible, the sea changes, the clouds catch the first light. And then, almost without you noticing exactly when it happened, the day is there.

I find that strangely energising, maybe because nothing has happened yet. The day has not asked anything of you. There are no decisions to make, no problems to solve, no conversations to have, no expectations to meet. For a few minutes, the day simply exists without requiring anything from you, and you are there for no other reason than to watch it arrive.

I sometimes wonder if that is part of what we miss in modern life. We experience so much, but rarely see the beginning of anything. We arrive at work after the day has already started. We join conversations halfway through. We watch the finished film rather than the making of it. We meet people after years of experiences have already shaped them. Beginnings are usually hidden from us, and maybe that is exactly why watching a sunrise feels so different from simply seeing daylight. You are not just seeing the light, you are watching something happen, and there is something reassuring in that.

The day does not arrive all at once, it takes its time. Darkness gives way to light almost imperceptibly, and nothing needs to hurry it along. Perhaps our own days work more like that than we realise. We tend to think change happens when something big happens, a decision, a move, a new job, a new relationship, some obvious moment after which everything is different. But I think most change actually happens in much smaller increments than that. A little more light. A little less darkness. One morning after another. And one day you look around and realise you are somewhere you were not before.

The sun has risen again. The season has changed. And, almost without noticing, so have you.