First Morning

Yesterday I woke up early and got on a bike to greet the first sunrise of the new year.

It was a cold morning slightly reminiscent of Baguio, with a thin layer of fog shrouding houses in the distance. I felt warmed, though, with the first heat of the sun – and I believe, also warmed with the energy and expectation of everyone dreaming and waking up to this day.

Most were still dreaming, though; the lights were still on in many of the houses I passed. The roads were deserted save for some street sweepers busily sweeping the remains of last night’s noisemaking and festivities. I was even able to ride my bike on the middle of the road without fear. Occasionally I passed a jogger or biker who probably had the same idea of greeting the new year as me - or were probably keeping to their morning routine without fail.

Almost every person I passed greeted me a happy new year. I felt their greetings were also for themselves as much as they were for me. Some smiled at me in understanding, as though we were sharing a secret in being one of the few to experience that morning while the rest of the world still slept.

As the sun came up and rays broke through thick clouds, I saw more and more houses with their lights turned off and an occasional person sweeping the yard of her home. I moved to the side of the road to give way to passing vehicles. I received more new year greetings.

While the sun steadily rose and gave more warmth, the clouds gathered and sprinkled us with a drizzle. People sweeping outside their homes and people jogging carried on, as though receiving blessings from the first morning shower. I welcomed the raindrops on my face.

I saw a jogger at rest and looking up, as though basking in both the sun and rain.

That morning, anything was possible. It was the first page of a notebook, clean and ready for the writer’s first words.

I wrote.