This place. These mountains. They are slowly turning me into a morning person. They are slowly healing me.
I used to dread the early hours of the day.
I’d lay in bed with my eyes fixed on cream colored ceilings and I’d curse myself for lack of motivation. I’d curse the universe for lack of tenderness too.
Sometimes I’d pinch the skin on my wrist between my forefinger and thumb just to make sure I was actually real.
But now, things are different.
I wake up, slip on some warm socks and thick layers. I quietly climb down from my bunk bed and I take myself outside to watch a brilliant orange sun scale the Ecuadorian Andes.
I drink coffee in silence with the cold nipping at my fingertips and I stretch my body on a yoga mat. Bending over, inhaling with gratitude, watching as the countryside gracefully resurrects from the darkness of night.
The lush green hills are iridescent and sparkling with dew at 6 am. In lieu of horns and cars and calamity, I listen to my labored breathing from the altitude and a choir of songbirds.
On certain days the hostel dogs curl up next to me. We are still together and I stroke their damp fur as Cotopaxi Volcano erupts.
I watch wild horses canter through the meadow and I set the breakfast table for guests who are eager to fuel their bodies before long days filled with hiking.
The mornings here are predictable, quiet, and simple. They are kind, slow and forgiving. They are perpetual mornings that roll into perpetual afternoons and fold into perpetual nights.
When the sun finally decides to sleep, I find myself thanking the universe instead of cursing it.
How lucky I am to have this stillness. How lucky I am to be exactly as I should be.
