Journal

When I was in my early twenties, I woke very, very early and hauled myself into a kitchen of a cafe in Boulder, Colorado. I flipped on the lights at 5:00 a.m., turned on the ovens, and spent my morning hefting gigantic trays of steaming muffins, pies, and cookies from back of house to front.

Baking has been in my DNA since I was born, and it was delicious fun to live out my childhood fantasies as a professional baker. But as much as I loved spreading the perfect cream cheese frosting on a carrot cake, this new direction kept appearing for me. At the same time I was learning to perfect my cheesecake recipe, I was learning about the effects of refined sugar on my body. I was whipping up layer cakes while doing candida cleanses, and suddenly it just fell apart. I left my job as a sugarplum drug dealer and sadly tucked my apron deep into the back of my pantry.

I used to be the type of person who was offended at any notion that I should rise before 10:00 a.m. From ages 11 to 25, I stayed in bed most days until about 11:00 a.m., then stumbled around in my pajamas until I decided it was finally time to do something with the day. Often, by the time I finally made it out the door, I found that the day had long since passed.

This woman who used to shuffle through life has long since been transformed. When I traded my late nights for day jobs, I found something quite fascinating: I actually enjoyed the mornings. When I began setting my alarm to make it to 6:00 a.m. yoga asana classes, I knew that something had shifted in me that would never go back.

There is a different kind of morning waiting for you, more than a caffeinated rush to get out the door. This morning is delicious, slow, and nourishing. And it tastes like porridge.

Impossible, you think. You’re busy. You have children who need tending. Breakfast (if it happens at all) is cold cereal or a frozen bagel. But before you believe what you’re saying, I’ll ask: Is that the way you want your life to be?

I worry that she will hate me one day. That she will take personally my look of exhaustion when she dumps a bucket of bathwater on the bathroom floor, or the way I am a little rough with a wet rag cleaning sweet potato from her ear at dinner.

I’ll know that I have reached enlightenment when I am as excited to climb stairs as my daughter is. But for now, I just stand behind her and watch as she giddily places one palm on the stair, then the other, one knee, then the other. She’s using her muscles in a way that have never moved before. After months of just lying around, she’s moving on her own. And she’s damn happy about it.