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There are two types of morning; one where most folks are up and scampering to meet their daily obligations - and the secret morning when most folks are sleeping and there's a softness to the air.

The secret morning is quiet, blessedly peaceful, and oh so fresh. My mind is clear of distracting thoughts and creative juices are flowing. Add a cup of coffee to the picture and it is pure bliss. This is the time of morning that my inner clock always wakes me up to. It's usually gone by eight a.m. but may begin long before the sun comes out.

I could remain in bed, but would miss out on the magic - time for "me," while the kids and my husband are still snoozing. Time to pray, write, walk, meditate and breathe the scented air, a prayer in itself. Morning has a unique smell ... a smell of overture and adventure at any season.

I used to be a night owl, till having discovered the early glory of one Manhattan morning. Twenty-something at 5 a.m., making my way home after the enchantment of an after-hours night-clubbing scene, the morning magic dazzled me. Even rubbing shoulders with Mick Jagger in the VIP Lounge of a New York City hotspot paled by comparison ... I'd lost my black lace shawl - there must have been symbolism in that. It was as if time stood still and I stood at the edge of eternity.

Bathed in soft light, the entire city seemed transformed and as fresh as baby's breath. There was barely a hint of traffic and SoHo became an Eden. Since that moment of epiphany, I've sought out those same early hours wherever I've lived in time and space. I've also wondered what morning must be like on other planets, in other galaxies ... that's how morning magic can fertilize the imagination.

Still fascinated with night life, I'd venture out extra late in order to be up extra early - to greet the secret morning.

Now, decades later, shouldering the responsibilities of married life and parenthood, I've skipped the typical night-life altogether yet still opt for extraordinary mornings. Living now in New England, Eden has different architecture, filled with trees, lanes and hedges. There is dewy foliage, and on the most majestic mornings, a soft mist beckons me out the door.

On winter mornings, the dew is crystalized into lacy patterns. The day has not yet crystalized and I've time to seek out the Designer's gentle signatures. By the time most people are just stirring, I've completed one creative project of my own - usually a bit of writing and always a bit of soul-searching.

Mornings are about potential. It is both an inner and outer experience, especially if one meets it on its threshold. For me, this is blissful and worth getting up for - and it started on one eternal SoHo morning because I'd been a night owl.

Learn more about this author, Violet Fortune.
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