Before Sunrise: My Market-Morning Ritual
My alarm goes off at 2:30 AM, and for a few seconds I wonder who set it and why. Then I remember: it’s market day. The house is dark and quiet, and I try to keep it that way as I move through the morning. Most of the work was done last night—bins packed, price labels checked, batteries charged—so all I have to do now is get ready, walk the dogs, sip something hot, and slide into the day.
There’s something lovely about driving into town while it’s still night. The roads are empty. The sky feels private. I use the quiet to run through my mental map of the booth: where the totes will stack, where the pouches will sit, which stand gets candles and which one gets keychains. By the time I pull into the parking lot, I can see the layout in my head.
Setup starts with the bones—tent, curtains, banner, tables, table covers—then comes the part that feels like styling a tiny shop in the middle of the park. I build little color stories: a floral tote next to a dotty pouch, a cheerful stripe to break up the pattern, keychains hung like jewelry on a spinning rack. If I’m lucky, the first breeze of the morning is kind and doesn’t try to rearrange everything I’ve just placed.
There’s a small ritual I do a few minutes before opening: I straighten rows, pluck stray threads, wipe a surface, take one step back and breathe. It’s a five-minute reset that tells my brain, “You did your best. Now let the day happen.”
People often ask how long setup takes, or how I keep track of everything, and the honest answer is that the routine saves me. I keep similar items together, pack the car in the same order, (it's small and I've gotten really good at playing Tetris), and return things to the same bins so breakdown goes as smoothly as setup. The ritual frees up energy for the good parts: conversations, fabric talk, helping someone choose a gift for a teacher or a tote for library days.
Market days are a lift—physically, definitely—but they’re also a joy. I love seeing pieces leave the table and head into real life. I love watching someone pick up a pouch because the lining made them smile, or hearing someone say, “This will be perfect for my mom.” Those moments are the reason I get up in the dark and roll into the park before sunrise.
When the closing bell comes, there’s a quiet satisfaction to packing up. The booth collapses back into bins, the banner rolls, the tables fold. I make the quick stops I need to make on the way home, unload the essentials, and then I’m done. The studio will be waiting tomorrow with the next batch of work, but for that afternoon, I let the day be enough.