Dawn Reverie

Every morning, I wake around 5:30, and drift in and out of dreams and consciousness for another fifteen minutes. Then I throw on a robe and slippers, put the kettle on for coffee, and step out onto the balcony. All is dark still, and the bay before me is a field of black velvet ringed with a golden necklace of flickering light. A lone nightbird sings, getting a jump on his diurnal friends. And then, out of the ether, floating and dreamlike, comes the ezan, the morning call to prayer.

It is my favorite moment of the day, this poetic, echoey summons to God issuing out of the blackness. There is none of the fire and brimstone character of the prayer calls in full daylight; this is soft, sleepy, winding its way into your sleep, a soft touch nudging you from slumber towards devotion. It seems to last twice as long as a normal prayer call, and I love to sit there on my balcony, utter stillness apart from this ethereal voice, waking my soul along with my body. It occurs to me what an extraordinary life I have: from my balcony I can gaze out onto a Homeric sea, and I am woken each morning by a dreamlike chant from a minaret. How many can say the same?