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.
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
