MORNING

I believe I love mornings so much—and subsequently get up ridiculously early—because at that time of the day, all my thoughts seem so miraculously clear.

Like crystal.

Like a ripple-less river.

Like a picture window freshly washed in ammonia and vinegar . . .

(It also seems to be a time of the day when I can’t stop writing similes.)

My brain is normally a sludgy, oatmeal-like mass of low-functioning gray matter. But for some mysterious reason, for about two hours after I get up in the morning, my medulla oblongata clicks in harmony with my pons. My left brain’s logical sequential function and my right brain’s intuitiveness get along like small-town-casserole-swapping neighbors, and my neuron synapses fire with the precision of a 21-gun salute.

Like a well-oiled engine.

(Oops, there go the similes again).

In the morning, an unfinished crossword puzzle from the day before suddenly seems head-slappingly obvious.

In the morning, a frustration miraculously forms a solution.

In the morning, the schedule for the day (after tossing and turning all night) suddenly unfolds like a Google map.

And in the morning, problems seem smaller; everything seems do-able.

Sometimes during my morning clarity, I feel envy. “Just think,” I marvel, “some people function with this level of brain power all the time. ALL THE TIME!”

They probably just take that 24/7 clarity for granted, assuming that everyone’s brain operates at non-stop peak performance. I fervently hope those people are sitting in places like the White House Oval Office or in the cockpit of any plane on which I’m a passenger.

Some people tell me that their most productive times are mid-morning or mid-afternoon. Others claim to be night owls whose energy and creativity kick in at 2 a.m.

Personally, I like having my clarity time early in the morning. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. Many mornings I get to see the sun rise and early birds catching worms. The hope for that clarity is my inspiration for rolling out of bed. If I accidently oversleep until, say, 7 o’clock, I feel disappointed. How could I waste the most valuable part of my day?

By 8 a.m., it's over. My superhero mental powers are already slipping away as my brain returns to its normal, pre-clarity level.

The cape goes back in the closet.

I am no longer able to think faster than a speeding bullet or leap tall problems in a single bound.

I no longer have the secret to saving the whales or the capability of finding the cure for Crohn’s disease.

I am once again 2to4aDay, mild-mannered retired school teacher in her knee brace and sweat pants, eating shredded wheat and making a grocery list.

But for those two early-morning hours, I am invincible.