The First Hour

A child once asked, “Why do you care so much about mornings? Aren’t all the hours the same?”

I thought for a while, then told him this story:

Imagine you have a glass of clear water. If you drop ink into it at the very start, the whole glass turns cloudy. But if you guard it, if you drink the first sip pure, then whatever comes after doesn’t matter as much. You already tasted clarity.

The first hour of the day is like that glass. If you protect it, the rest of the day bends gently around it. You move your body, you sit in the quiet, you touch the one thing that matters most—the project you believe in, the person who needs your heart, the question that keeps circling in your mind.

Later, the phone will ring, the world will shout, the weather will change. But you already carried your stone forward. That small victory is yours.

The child nodded slowly. “So the first hour is like a secret door,” he said.

Yes. A door no one else can open for you.