By Maray Sutti Picq
There is a moment in the morning
A quiet hour,
before the light fully arrives,
before the world begins to move.
The room is still dark.
Maybe a candle is lit.
Maybe only the first traces of blue
are entering through the window.
Everything feels softer.
Slower.
More intimate.
And then,
you begin to practice.
There is something about this time
that is difficult to explain.
The body is not yet busy.
The mind has not yet gathered its stories.
The day has not yet taken form
You move,
but it doesn’t feel like effort.
You breathe,
and the sound of your own breath
fills the space.
If you are alone,
it feels like a conversation
with something very quiet inside you.
If you are in a group,
it feels like a shared silence.
Not empty,
but alive.
There is a rhythm that appears.
Breath.
Movement.
Stillness.
No rush.
No performance.
No need to be anywhere else.
And maybe this is what makes it so special.
You are not practicing
inside the day.
You are practicing
before it begins.
There is something almost sacred
in that space.
Not in a religious way.
But in the sense
that it cannot be forced.
It can only be entered.
I used to practice at 6 a.m. and woke up at 5 am.
Sometimes even earlier.
And there was always this feeling
That I had touched something
I couldn’t quite name.
A quiet clarity.
A soft connection.
A kind of inner steadiness.
It is not something
you find in every moment.
It belongs to that hour.
To the darkness.
To the first light.
To the breath before the world wakes up.
And maybe
that is why it stays with you.
If you ever have the chance,
wake up before the sun.
Light a candle.
Roll out your mat.
And listen.
You might find
that something in you
was already awake.