The Liminal Space Before the Morning Bell

For as long as I can remember, I have set an alarm clock each night for the following morning. As a young teenager, on my bedside table a small white plastic casing housed a tiny clock, with a circular dial on the back and a clunky on-off button. Together these two could be used to set a rising time, giving me full permission to lean into sleep, safe in the knowledge that I would not be late (something that I, being fond of punctuality, would attempt to avoid at all costs!)

Today it’s a digital alarm that I set, but it provides the same reassurance. However, in over thirty years of setting an alarm clock, I have never overslept, but not because the alarm has woken me. Rather, I always wake up before it sounds.

In my teenage years I used to lie there, waiting for the alarm to sound, wondering why I could never stay asleep right up to the time I had set. But as an adult, I bask in this pocket of time.

This liminal space between sleeping and starting the day holds a particular magic I have discovered. It’s a moment of quiet where the ideas swirl, and the sounds of the world outside soothe, an inviting corridor from one state of being to the next. There is no sleep here, but also no movement either. It is just my mind and soul that are fully present, listening to the sounds, to my thoughts and to those earliest moments of the new day.

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
 - T.S. Eliot, Burnt Norton (Four Quartets)

There is a gentleness about this time, when it’s just me and the sound of raindrops bouncing off the roof windows, or in Spring a chorus of birdsong echoing on the wind, or in the depths of Winter the vast silence, only to be interrupted by the occasional engine travelling on country roads outside. In this still point, this moment in between two parts, there is a clarity that emerges. Perhaps the silence and stillness give room for intuition, imagination and creativity, or the dance as T.S. Eliot wrote. This is the moment that matters, the moment in between everything else.

Much is written about the little things, and references to notice the so called small mundane activities because of their true status as the big things. In a similar vein, I like to rest my attention on the still point between moments. It is so interesting to notice what arises within that moment, what gushes up from the inner wellspring, waiting to be heard.  This still point of course can exist at other times throughout the day, although it might require more effort to withdraw from the activities of daily life, whereas the conditions are already set in the early morning before the world around us awakens.

In the absence of noise we can think but even more importantly, we can listen. It is from this point that I write. The gentleness of this time opens the door to my own creativity, and the seeds of my words are often sown here.

While I savour the sweetness of these moments of early morning, I find myself wondering if there are others out there doing the same. It’s 6.45am, and as I near the time to arise and greet the day, I wonder does this resonate with you? Time to pop the kettle on.

Until next time,

Deborah x