It's a beautiful day here in the neighborhood, I thought this morning as I arose early to greet the day. What is early? Anytime before 6:15 a.m. would count as early for me.

Early begins when late ends in some folks minds, but not in mine. I'm usually asleep in what are usually counted "the early morning hours" of any given day.

In the past, I had to get up just before 5 a.m. one day a week to take the newspaper to be printed, but those hours are a little more humane these days. I now have a similar wake up schedule every day, getting up around 6:30 a.m. to start my day.

It's not like I use an alarm clock, though. It's pretty much a given that sometime around the time the sun rises I'm going to be awake. Besides, it's also a given that I'm going to need to go the restroom just after my eyes open.

It's a good thing that I do get up first. It helps me beat the rush to the restroom. Usually my early-morning trip down the hall wakes at least one of the children, who then wakes up everyone shortly thereafter and comes to the living room. I drink coffee as they sit with me for a few minutes.

It's a quiet routine, but a pretty good one. Sometimes we check the weather; other times we watch cartoons or just talk. While I don't put on my slippers and a different colored sweater out of the closet, it is a Mr. Rogers-like routine. In other words, it is peaceful, predictable and kid-friendly.

I've always enjoyed my hour or so in the mornings before work. It's a good time to let the cobwebs fall away as the sun shines through the windows on the south side of the house. Since the house is on a south-facing slope, the morning sun usually finds its way in pretty soon after the sunrise.

Without the lights on in the house, the dappled morning sunlight gives the room the feeling of a silent forest or even the edge of a cave.

The kids usually use this time to sit on my lap, sometimes two at a time, curling up their sleepy little bodies as they huddle under a little blanket I keep on the back of the chair. Now that I have children, I've come to realize that they are all passionate about different things, just as we adults tend to be. Well, at least some adults. I have known a few who seemed passionate about little else than doing nothing at all. But that's not what I'm writing about. One of my daughters seems to enjoy working with me, doing outside work like moving firewood or doing other kinds of work. I've not quite pegged her specialty, but she does seem good at a number of things. Thus far, I've pegged her as my writer. But, since she's such a practical and hard-working child, it's really hard to tell overall.

The other daughter seems to enjoy artistic pursuits. Well, artistic for a child of five, anyway. She loves drawing with pencils and pens, coloring with paints and markers and working with mixed media. She's also good with her studies so far, being advanced in learning the alphabet and reading and spelling and such, so perhaps I'm giving them direction without realizing it.

One thing's for sure, she seems to enjoy watching that guy with the curly 1970s hair paint pictures. You know, the one who says things like, "Let's put a little tree over here" and "I think a rock lives here with a little moss on its back." I think the show is called "The Joy of Painting." That fellow died a few years ago, from what I understand, but his show lives on. Anyone who enjoys watching that would have to be doing it for the love of art.

There's a new one that involves teaching children how to draw that she also enjoys. I've only seen it once, but it's a little easier to watch than the other one.

I can barely stand to watch even one minute of either one, though. But she sits, enthralled by it, as if it were the most interesting thing she's ever seen. Peeling back the layers of a picture as if revealing the innermost parts of a scene might could be fascinating for one with such an inclination. For me, art was never even a consideration when I was looking at a path to take.

I was more like the other daughter, a worker and a realist—not so much a dreamer. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but I'd say when a child enjoys something, that's probably the first step toward making him or her good at that thing. In fact, I feel that it's impossible to achieve a higher level of performance without at least somewhat enjoying a pursuit. Granted, one can force a child to take piano lessons, but a prodigy will always outpace one who does the work out of duty or is forced to participate.

Music and writing were the only areas where I occasionally freed my mind to dream. I could live inside a story book or conjure up a world in my imagination if given the time and a little quiet. Musically, I always enjoyed recreating songs that I heard on the radio or a worn eight-track somewhere. Sometimes I tried my hand at writing as well.

My parents encouraged me to be involved in music and to write, so maybe I should be doing a better job of it myself. However, I'd have to admit, with paint causing the mess it does and the tendency of markers to end up coloring kids, chairs, beds and most everything else in addition to paper, I sometimes don't do as well as I should.

I've considered getting her some instruction time with a real artist and real paints, but I haven't. Maybe I'll try to lighten up a little on the rules, or at least let the messes happen outside on the back porch.

After all, I didn't end up being a musician, but I did end up being a writer. What hope might end up being realized that lives only within a little child's mind?
 

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