A Failed Experiment
A morning to myself & revenge bedtime procrastination
I woke up with the sun this morning, intent on savoring the early hours alone, before the rest of the household stirred, before the phone began buzzing and my to-do list clamoring. What can I do just for myself? I wondered. Perhaps I’ll spend some time writing in my new journal—which is also an excuse to use my new favorite, delectably smooth-gliding fountain pen that leaves my hands ink-stained but happy. (It has an actual inkwell—very fun and very messy!) Or maybe go skinny-dipping in the pool and make it a kind of immersive meditation, staying hyper-present to my five senses, to the feeling of being submerged and the chorus of birds and the pups as they gallop around the perimeter. Maybe I’ll lie in the hammock for a half-hour with a book from one of the towering to-be-read piles in my home office.
It all sounded so nice, so relaxing, that I felt my shoulders drop in anticipatory relief. But then—quick, feed the dogs and let them out, lest Lentil has another accident on the new carpet. And while I’m at it, organize the dog food and leashes for the pet sitter arriving tonight. Oh, shit! Wet laundry still in washer! Pop in dryer right now! Wait, wait—I need to write a check for the chimney guy coming later this morning. Where’s my checkbook? I’d better look for that now before I forget. Better organize the mound of papers on my desk in which said checkbook was hiding. Better take trash out while I’m here so my office is fully tidy when it’s time to work. Stomach is grumbling—I really should start eating breakfast.
And then I remembered, This is my morning to myself! I quickly reoriented: swim first, breakfast after. I headed outside and jumped into the water just as my phone rang. It was my friend Lizzie with what I suspected was a time-sensitive question about our upcoming trip—we were leaving in a few days’ time. Half-submerged, I answered. Five minutes later, I got out, teeth chattering and hair dripping but having failed to do any actual swimming.
On and on the minutes rolled by, as I tended to one task after another, each seemingly so urgent. The minutes accumulated, and before I knew it those three glorious hours were gone. I was bewildered. I had carved out three hours for myself; I had gotten up extra early for this express purpose. It was a rare, luxurious gift for myself, and the time had evaporated.
“What to make of this?” I scribbled on a page in my journal later that day.
“The issue is not finding time,” came the answer. “The issue is me and my reflexive need to do rather than simply be.”
Irony of all ironies? To eke out time for that journal entry, I had to literally block out a window in my calendar. Then I told Jon I had very important work to do, so I needed thirty uninterrupted minutes. As soon as I sat down with my journal, I realized I hadn’t said that so he’d respect my time. I said that so I would respect my own time.
I still forget, more often than I’d like to admit to you (maybe even less to myself), that my value does not lie in my output. It seems to be one of my forever lessons. My journal entry ended with this recommitment: “Tomorrow I will rise early and try again. I will make myself coffee, resist the siren call to do anything, and spend the hour on the sofa. Writing in these pages. Maybe reading, perhaps flipping through a design magazine. But more than anything, simply being.”
In this ever-busier world, the to-do list has no end. There will be someone or something else that needs you. So reader, I’d like to challenge you to carve out a window of time today—ten minutes maybe, or a half hour, or the whole morning if you have that luxury. Read and journal to today’s essay, “Empty Nester/Early Bird” by the novelist Allegra Goodman, and imagine what it might feel like to step away, to take time for yourself, to just be.
Some Items of Note—
I’ll be hosting this month’s virtual creative hour with the award-winning author and my beloved mentor and friend, , on Sunday, July 13 from 1-2pm, for paid subscribers. We’ll talk, we’ll write, we’ll answer your questions. If you’d like access to the event, make sure to upgrade to a paid subscription, and we’ll send you a Zoom link the day before!
I shared the first installment of a new summer series, Journaler’s Routine, and explored the blood-pressure-raising thought experiment of my journals being read posthumously. Read it here!
In addition to limited stock of the Book of Alchemy tote and the Wonder sweatshirt, by popular demand we’ve brought back the Isolation Journal No. 1. Get yours here!
Prompt 345. Empty Nester/Early Bird by Allegra Goodman
Revenge bedtime procrastination: The term is popular and so is the behavior—staying up late after a stressful day just to eke out a little time for yourself. But what’s the word for those of us who steal time for ourselves before everybody else starts driving, honking, scrolling, texting? I have always loved the morning, but for years I spent the early hours feeding babies, preparing lunches, and driving my kids. “From six to eight am—those are the best hours in the day,” my father used to tell me. “You should do your writing then.” But breakfast, lunch boxes, lost ballet slippers, and cardboard dioramas ate the time. It was not until the youngest of my four children left home that I took back the morning.
My first impulse was to rest. No carpool? I saw no reason to leap out of bed. However, after so many years of waking up early, I had lost the ability to catch up on sleep. I began to look around, wondering what I could do to start the day. I was not accustomed to sitting quietly and writing or reading or meditating. I’d trained myself to rush out to my car and go. But where should I go now? What was open? Cautiously, I ventured out and discovered a group I had never seen before. Morning people by choice. Those who jump out of bed without children or dogs or long commutes. Runners, birdwatchers, neighbors who wake to watch the sunrise. What could I do at dawn?
When my kids were little, I’d try to swim a couple times a week. I’d drop the kids at school and then drive across town to dive in at nine am. Without kids, I began swimming at eight. Then I experimented with swimming at seven. Alas, construction across the street made parking difficult. I did some quick calculations. The pool opened at six. If I arrived before that, I could compete with the construction workers who came early to park before they started work at seven. I drove to the pool earlier, and earlier still. In the pool I am not strong or fast, but I excel at waking up and getting there.
At five fifteen, construction workers park all around me, many sleeping in their trucks, while I sit up reading. At six am I walk to the pool where a few other fanatics wait. Doors open. We rush to the locker rooms and then—joy! We plunge into the water. It’s an addictive feeling—not just the immersive exercise but the smug satisfaction of literally jump-starting the day. I leave the pool at seven with a burst of energy, an early morning high. What should I do first? Finish my novel? Clean out the garage? Anything seems possible.
The euphoria never lasts, but when I swim, I sleep better at night, and I think better too. Swimming laps, I come up with new ideas and work through problems without distraction. In the water you can’t check your phone. You can’t hold a conversation. Your goggles fog up. I don’t see much of the swimmers splashing around me, mostly hands and feet. And how comforting that they can’t see much of me. I feel less self-conscious exercising in water than I do on land.
Of course there are downsides. People find it annoying when I start talking about swimming early. I sound so chipper. Construction workers don’t love the sight of my car. One winter morning as I sat writing on my computer in the dark, the man parked in front of me got out of his truck, slammed the door, marched over, and rapped on my window. “Turn off your lights,” he growled. “I’m trying to take a nap.”
Summer is easier. I drive to the pool in the light and the mood is lighter too. The construction guys gather outside their trucks to share coffee. I see more runners. In my car I read or write in broad sunshine. But I love the dark winter mornings too. I bundle up in blankets, and I work with a flexible reading light around my neck—a light marketed for knitters. In the cavernous indoor pool, I start the day stroking through the water, and even if it’s snowing outside, I leave warm all over.
When I swim, I wash away the worries of the night, the regrets, bad dreams, and fears. “To affect the quality of the day,” Thoreau wrote, “that is the highest of arts.” Heading home at seven am, I begin my day with hope. I get to watch the sunrise.
Your prompt for the week:
What would you do if you could take an hour just for yourself each day? Meditate? Exercise? Practice an instrument? Read? Draw? Write? At what time of day would you do it? Morning? Night? Your lunch break? Describe it all in detail, including how it makes you feel.
Today’s Contributor—
Allegra Goodman’s novels include Isola (a Reese’s Book Club selection), Sam, The Chalk Artist, Intuition, The Cookbook Collector, Paradise Park, and Kaaterskill Falls, a National Book Award finalist. Her fiction has appeared in The New Yorker and elsewhere and has been anthologized in The O. Henry Awards and Best American Short Stories. She has written two collections of stories, The Family Markowitz and Total Immersion and a novel for younger readers, The Other Side of the Island. Goodman is the recipient of a Whiting Award, the Salon Award for Fiction, and fellowships from MacDowell and the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study. Raised in Honolulu, she lives with her family in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
The Book of Alchemy: Readers’ Routines
In last week’s comments section, so many of you shared your journaling routines—it’s like you jump-started our series! Here’s one from Connie that I loved for its specificity:
For once, I am in a bit of a flow regarding my journaling. I have a routine (Day 31) born out of the 100-day challenge. Every morning, after rising from my sleep, I run the tap to its coldest to splash my face, pour a coffee, and make my way to the studio. My desk faces a window displaying our delightful apple tree and strawberry patch, which is dotted with bright ripe fruit. I light my sage candle and wait quietly until my body and mind agree that I’m here. Invariably as I read, words fall into my space that are timely. I’m so blessed by the writings and this group.
A morning with intention should feel like a sip of something special, but instead, it often turns into a frantic scavenger hunt for lost objects, unfinished tasks, and forgotten identities. You underline so brilliantly the comedy of errors that is modern “me time”, and the deeper, quieter tragedy of internalised urgency. Even in solitude, we are surveilled by the part of ourselves that needs proof we’re being “good”, “productive”, “worthy”.
What if the real issue isn’t our reflex to do, but our fear of being forgotten when we don’t? We respond to our to-do lists, we fear we’ll disappear without them. Rest, then, becomes an act of self-care, but mostly an act of existential daring. It’s choosing to exist without explanation.
And maybe we need less commitment to “trying again tomorrow”, and more permission to fail gloriously today. To let the morning unravel, to eat breakfast at noon, to sit with ink-stained fingers and know they have touched something real, even if it wasn’t on the list.
I fully support the inkwell renaissance too. May the messiest pleasures always win.
Suleika, that image—of you waist-deep, holding Lentil in the water like a question, like a kiss—lodged itself in me. Not just tender, but almost mythic. A gesture both ordinary & exquisite. It wasn’t the shriek of a morning derailed, but a soft haunting: Will you stay anyway? Even if the hour unravels? And Allegra, I can feel the chill of your steering wheel at 5:15am, the sky still navy, your breath a small fog against the glass. The reading light curled around your neck like a halo of intention. There’s something devotional in that discipline. Monastic, almost.
If I had an hour, I wouldn’t seize it—I’d seduce it. I’d brew tea so strong it could stain a tooth, drink it barefoot on the cold floor. I’d wear my oldest jumper, the one with the stretched-out cuffs I chew when I think. I wouldn’t reach for the perfect pen. I’d reach for the one that bleeds. Maybe I’d write. Maybe I’d lie down beside the open window & let the morning air press its damp mouth against my skin. I’d let the light move across the room without trying to capture it. No fixing. No improving. Just this: one woman, slightly undone, entirely present.
And perhaps that’s the lesson nestled inside both your hours—that time doesn’t need to be held tightly to matter. It can spill a little. Smudge a little. We begin again anyway. Whether in chlorinated water before the world wakes, or cradling a warm, leguminous body in the quiet shallows—what matters is the return. The reentry. The soft insistence that we are not just here to perform the day, but to inhabit it. To meet it—not as machines—but as women, porous & alive.