When I was growing up, my mother woke me each morning the same way. She would step into the hallway outside my room and say my name clearly but quietly, just once, with a slight questioning tone. Some groan or stirring from me was her answer and I was up.
I never owned an alarm clock until preparing for life in a college dorm. I joked with my mother as I was packing that I really needed a time-activated recording of her voice calling my name and that nothing else would likely work.
Alarms have always been my least favorite part of the day. Waking is delightful when done slowly and at the body’s natural pace, awful when you are yanked brutally from the void with jangly music or raucous buzzers.
Life is sweetest when lived with no alarm.