Another sign of my inevitable march of time is how cheered I’ve become lately by the earlier sunrises. With the clocks changing this weekend, this soon won’t be the case, of course, but right now the sun is rising before 7am again, which means it’s almost light when I wake up, making a dramatic change in my optimism about the day ahead. No longer does it feel like I’m getting started when the rest of the world is asleep — although, to be fair, that’s probably still the case, but it doesn’t feel like it, which is nice — and instead, it’s as if the day is waking up with me, if that makes sense.
Everything changes this Sunday, of course; the 6:45 sunrises will become 7:45 again, although the Internet promises me that we’ll be back to this point by the end of the month, which feels entirely do-able in a way that the seasons shifting didn’t this time last month. This wasn’t always the case for me; I didn’t used to be so happy about — or even conscious of — earlier mornings and when the sun rises. I’m putting it down to growing older, but why that should be the case, I have no idea.