As I grow, I find that I am continually changing the way in which I wake up. In general, the order of events goes something like this: the circadian rhythm rouses my brain, and any number of concerns may be the first out of the gate to stir some motivation for opening my eyes. I sit up in bed, swing my feet to the floor, and off I go on a hamster wheel routine of clock watching and checklists.

When I was little, waking up meant that I had to first clarify what day of the week it was. Saturday? Sleep in. Yessss! In college, waking up had me immediately trying to center on exactly where I was. Burlington? Amherst? Dublin? Český Krumlov? Heck, anything was possible. I feel as though I woke up in a state of confusion for years. Perhaps the favored pastime of Guinness drinking had something to do with this.

Further into my twenties, I didn’t really think anything upon waking because a fair amount of those years saw me springing out of bed to ensure that I relieved the watch on time. It’s not glamorous, but picture a windowless stateroom on a gently rocking warship. There’s a trio of racks stacked against the bulkhead and there might be a red light casting a night-vision friendly glow all around the room. The alarm goes off (or shit- maybe it doesn’t), you rip open the rack curtain, somehow manage to catch the rubberized foot wrung and hop to the deck without missing a beat. All while still in a foggy state. Behold automated sea duty that offers little room for ponderous musings.

For my thirties, morning consciousness has come served with a real mixed bag of emotions. Depending on the time and place, I could have a pit in my stomach as I wake up wondering exactly how badly I’ve altered my life’s planned trajectory. Or it could be far more peaceful. The last dream of the night could suddenly dissipate and gently drop me off in a place that assures me that as soon as I open my eyes, I will be presented with the best situation possible. I could be staring into the woods from the second floor window of my Cape Cod home.

This morning I awoke thinking only of the color shift that was happening just on the other side of the vertical blinds. It was the familiar yet mute indication that night was rolling over into day. I lay there and didn’t move. I wondered about the weather, and whether it would be possible to go for a run before the wintry mix showed up and snowed me in for good. I felt no panic or sense of urgency- only an observation of easy thoughts that may or may not materialize into action. The entire experience was a welcome luxury that I now recognize as a bit of a rarity in my self-imposed harried life.

I’d love to believe that the frequency of waking up in relative peace is one that will only increase with age. After all, I don’t have the same kind of Super Bouncy Ball energy that I once had, and I’m all for cutting distractions from my life that are not self-serving. But at the same time, I know that life gets more complicated as we grow older. Kids, parents, jobs, money, our health. All of it will be somehow sewed into our morning psyche whether we want it to or not.

I’m no wizened raisin by any stretch, but as I move along in this world I’m learning and relearning that it’s the little things that I appreciate the most. Thoughtful gestures, a knowing glance, or simply waking up to a singular moment that leaves me free to linger without judgment. I’ve still got things to accomplish before the day turns back into darkness, but for now I’ll sit a few moments more and appreciate the wake ups that really give me something worth getting out of bed for.