I woke early and watched the show outside my kitchen window on this December morning. Silver frosting glistened on the lawn as the moon winked goodbye and the sun peeked at the day, one ray at a time. The sun was taking its time, pushing clouds from its eyes and stepping slowly upon the icy moon spell of the earth. And then it happened fast, this changing of the celestial guard. I sat with my first cup of coffee and not only saw the veil of night lift, but felt it. There is a certain moment, “Ta Da!” and the new day is gently and powerfully revealed. Of course, I feel as if I’m the only one in the audience. This display is just for me, I think, as I watch the morning dress for the day. Light combs through the bare birch, maple, and poplar trees, pastel pink blush sweeps over the now pale silver lawn, and a baby powder blue colors the sky. There is a choir of chickadees, nuthatches, and titmice singing and eating at the feeder, their tiny heads haloed with the dawn. And suddenly, there is a sprinkling of gold dust cast over all. It is the finale of the morning extravaganza and I want to capture it. “The sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold,” Edna St. Vincent Millay said in a poem. I quickly climb the stairs to find my camera, but when I return, it’s over, this morning show. The light has scattered to bless the day, in and out of clouds, climbing steep hills and mountains, and assuring the earth of renewal.
After this, I am both reluctant to take myself too seriously and not too seriously.
“Have you ever given orders to the morning, or shown the dawn its place…” (Job 38:12); “What is the way to the abode of light? And where does darkness reside? Can you take them to their places? Do you know the paths to their dwellings?” (Job 38:19-20)
I was traveling 80 to 85 miles per hour on the New York State Thruway a few days ago. Since March when my novel, Norah, was released, I’ve been speeding through the days in cars, planes, shuttles, buses, and trains. She has a story to tell and I am the vehicle. It’s been a long journey, and it continues. And there is another woman who also has a story to tell. And when the car stops, the plane lands, and I get off the train or bus, I will listen to her story.
But in the meantime, these morning shows are all mine. No voices, but the voice of morning taking me through the day into the night.
“I arise today through the strength of heaven, Light of sun, radiance of moon…” (Breastplate of St. Patrick)
Absolutely beautiful, Cynthia, poetic and wise.
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