I’m not an addict, baby….that’s a lie.
My pajama bottoms are wet with dew. I missed being drenched by seconds today.
I live beside the ocean. Every morning, I wake up, make coffee, walk down to the patio door and straight outside to commune with Her power.
I breathe deeply and listen to the birds. I walk into the grass and I let myself get a little bit dirty.
This morning, the air was heavy with rain and now the deluge has begun.
I get up at 530am each day, with the exception of Saturdays.
It’s a habit I can’t seem to quit. I think I do it because I crave space.
It’s more than a craving. It’s a full blown addiction…to space.
I’m addicted to finding it.
I’m addicted to being in it.
And the space created by early mornings is second to none. It’s animalistic and unrefined. Some days, it’s terrifyingly powerful.
Possibility and Potential that feel so close in the wee hours. Like you can reach out and touch the divine or hear the Earth’s deepest secrets before they are whispered to anyone else.
As the spiritually guided would say – the veil is thin when you wake with God.
I remember doing the morning show in North Bay, Ontario in the early 2000s. Back then, I’d get up at 345am to be at my desk on Main Street for 415am.
To most, that rightly sounds like torture – and some days it was.
But I can still feel the silence. I can still feel the palpable space of the early mornings.
In the winter, my footprints were always first in the snow. And can still hear the crunch of my boots as loud as a crack of thunder and lightning in the sky.
Now, decades later, I have two small kids and a husband who support my early addiction, but who don’t fully understand it.
Nevertheless, I just can’t quit these mornings – especially now as an entrepreneur.
Part of what I’ve been doing for the last year (besides wrangling with COVID and a pregnancy, a home renovation and all the other mess of things we’ve all had going on) was holding space for other women as they grow and step into themselves.
And to be quite honest, my morning addiction fell to pieces when I had my second daughter. Something about the haze and fog of having an infant that leaves you with every excuse in the world to not fill your own cup.
Not only that, but rationally explaining why, even with a tiny baby, I wanted to get up before the sun, felt like too much work.
However, in the last month, my morning routine – feet in the grass, eyes to the sky – has been sacred.
I sense it’s because it’s my oxygen mask after the last year.
Because I spent almost all of 2020 and most of the first quarter of 2021 holding and creating space for other people – my kids, my team, my clients. I spent the entire year in survival and response mode.
And if that resonates with you, then you know that when you are in that frantic state- even if it’s a low grade, subconscious thing – there is no space for anything else.
Anxiety, fear, reactivity – those things suck up the space like a vortex. I was slowly being crushed by a very real lack of space and the inability to feel small.
Up until a few weeks ago, I was having trouble taking a full breath, let alone matching my breath to the rolling waves of the Atlantic.
It’s hilarious to think that as entrepreneurs, seeing space in our calendars can cause anxiety and tension. The swirling thoughts and judgements around ‘having free time’ can be paralyzing. We feel like we need to fill the space with new clients, new projects, other things.
As an entrepreneur, space is uncomfortable. And I’m sitting here questioning why that is – why is the space terrifyingly powerful for me as a human in the dewy grass in the early mornings and yet crippling moments later when I look at my Google calendar?
Oh no, lizard brain. I see you. Space is always terrifyingly powerful. We need space. Without it, we can’t breathe. It’s the medicine of the divine.
And so I’ve succumbed to my primal need for breath, space, bigness…mystery. I’m reclaiming my addiction.
I’m back to basics. Back to myself. Back to the stillness of the mornings.
Feature Image for this post taken while I was 9 months pregnant on Nova Scotia’s South Shore.