Like an ancient Druid, I watch and wait for the sun to rise. The stars, and what I think might be Venus–though I’m not sure–remain. The air is cool and still. There’s a vast unknown I feel small against, but still a part of. The Druid in me knows the sun will appear, yet I still hold that tension of anticipation. “It is a good idea to be alone in a garden at dawn or dark so that all its shy presences may haunt and possess you in a reverie of suspended thought.” ~ James Douglas. I feel held. It’s a sacred moment.
This was my view from the patio at the Wildacres Retreat Center where I attended the Table Rock Writers’ Workshop. The photo was taken at 6:08 and I was one of only two sitting in rockers, in the mountain quiet. Even though it’s relatively dark, there are lights enough on the patio that I can journal. Following are parts of those entries:
6:30 The mountains are no longer shades of blue and grey, I can see the green in the trees. There’s one ridge that looks brighter, maybe one streak of sunlight is hitting it. And yet … It’s that liminal space between dawn and day. I’ve heard the first lone chirps of birds.
6:48 It’s taken 15 minutes for the mountains to ‘wake up’. I keep glancing at the mountains, waiting for the first real peek of sunlight, not wanting to miss that moment when the valleys finally blaze. What is it about that incremental movement of the sun that grabs my attention? Is it that even something as normal, predictable, and glorious takes time? That even though light and dark are weightless, dispelling darkness is heavy work and can only be done in small steps? Or is it that our Creator doesn’t want us to miss that moment either so gives us time to brew our morning coffee or tea, grab a blanket, and get settled in to watch and wait.
It’s 7:05 and I can distinguish individual trees in the valleys, and along the ridge lines. More people are waking and arriving on the patio. There are hushed ‘good mornings’, or simply silent nods of greeting. Even the scrape of wooden rockers on the slate patio surface is muted as other Table Rockers (what we attendees are affectionately called) move them into place. No one is eager to disturb the stillness. Well, except one person who’s speaking loudly into their phone, the voice drifting off into the ether.
7:30 The valleys are fully lit, the patio is bustling with Rockers talking, having their morning coffee, and the breakfast bell is ringing for the first time. The mountain is awake.
Another time on another mountain the sun’s arrival was more solid than ethereal, it spread like an unseen hand pouring molten gold, or melted cheese, down the valleys of Mt. Mitchell. I’d never seen anything like it and my mind played tricks on me as I convinced myself it was sunlight. Was the difference because this was later in the year, mid-to late October, so the sun was lower in the sky? Did the contours of this particular valley gather the light in such a way it didn’t disperse so thinly? I’ll never know but I’ll also never forget that image. As in most cases, the pictures don’t truly capture the vision. In this case how brilliant and saturated the color.
This watching and waiting is universal in both length and width. In the length of time, I think of ancient civilizations and the Indigenous Peoples and how they marveled yet feared the daily eating of the light; their joy and relief at its return. When did that fear turn into curiosity? According to one source, the first documented records of systematic astronomical observations date back to 1000 BCE. (ESA Science and Technology).
In the width of time, I’ve watched the sun rise over the ocean, first sending rays rippled by waves, then the ocean appearing to drape and drip off the orb as it finally lifts free of the horizon. I have a friend, newly retired, who watches and waits on a bench overlooking his fields. I’ve marveled at another’s photos taken on her way to work, stopping the car to capture so many perfect moments. In one of my favorites, she caught the rising sun hitting railroad tracks and turning them into ribbons of gold. My Facebook feed is filled with sunrises from around the world.
Even though we know the science behind the earth’s rotation, we really are no different than those ancient peoples. We still sit and watch and wait in awe.
As the above quote says, ‘…sit in the dawn or dark …’ The sun also leaves in increments. Here’s a picture of the dark off my deck as I watched the trees become just silhouettes, and lightening bugs filled the air with tiny star bursts. The insects ramped up their music and the birds–except for the owl–quieted theirs.
I hope you have a wonderful week and that you occasionally have the luxury of watching and waiting for a sunrise …or a sunset.
This Wednesday marks the 23rd anniversary of 9-11. How easily a quarter of a century slips by. May we never forget.
A Writer's Window 