Light Me Up

A single moment of the day lights me up from head to foot, charges my batteries, makes my skin tingle gloriously and my senses dance, all of them, and mirabile dictu, I am gifted with that moment every morning. What did I ever do to deserve this?

When I awaken around five and potter out to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, the world outside my windows is still in darkness, the features of the city nebulous, bosky and undifferentiated to an early morning eye. In winter, birds seldom visit the garden before sunrise (although there will be throngs of them later), and a gentle silence reigns there, untrammeled by the usual city noises: the clank of heavy machinery at nearby construction sites, the hum of traffic, the early backyard conversations of happy canines and the mumbles of sleepy commuters headed downtown. The stillness which is draped over everything before sunrise is the perfect companion to begin the day.

Then the sun comes up, making its first appearance over the old trees in the garden and the wide rooftops which are part of every urban landscape. The day's first light stains the deep snow, peers through the trees, pokes its way through the weathered railings on the deck and paints the old pine fence with rosy fingers and a wide brush. For a few minutes, the whole world seems to be ablaze and full of music.

Each sunrise is different, and every single one is a gift. Here comes another day, full of light and pregnant with possibility. Ready or not, here I come too, perhaps not as filled with light as the morning sky, but working on it in my own rather peculiar fashion. . . .