The morning. I love the morning; its promise, its peace, its solitude. A part of me is thankful most don’t like to wake up early. Bathing in the wondrous shards of dawn scattered about the western sky, I can marvel at the promise arising on the eastern horizon without ever hearing a complaint. I can just exist in the respite, touching the face of the God I have found, enjoying peace as I commune with a nature most have either forgotten on not known at all. I pity them, for nothing seems to act as a reliable mirror to the soul as the nature we were born into. We may have forgotten her, but she has never forsaken us. Not even in our current state of denial.
In my experience, nature is never more alive than she is in the early morning. It seems creatures both earth-bound and taken to the sky rejoice in nature’s transformation from darkness to light. The grass looks greener, the air feels crisper, and the mountains look even more majestic bathing in the orange hue of a brand new day. The blood flowing through a man’s veins seems more energized as he shakes off his evening slumber, reminding him that he is quite a part of something bigger than his job, his thoughts and the opinions others may have of him. He is, if nothing more, as much of the sunrise as he is part of the night’s darkness. I feel as if I can howl as I sit still spinning on my Earth, and I know if I do it will be part of this great chorus that surrounds me, awakens me, and takes me to heaven.
On this morning I can hear the long-lost chants of my Native brothers and sisters playing through time. I can sense my soul touching the face of a Spirit guide, the one who has shown me much in my journey and reminded me of who I am. I can hear the footfalls of warriors paying homage to a great fire in the sky, and sense a caress of a great Chief piercing my sky to touch my heart directly. I don’t feel worthy. I know, he says. I’ve never felt worthy. Yet the Sun rises for you, he says. Should it? You cannot stop it, he replies. She loves you and shines on in your heart even when your eyes are closed. The warms the insect and the gods alike, and glistens on the smallest puddle the way she shines on the largest sea. Just shine, he says.
I want to cry, but a smile crests my lips instead. I want to feel sorry for myself, but a warriors song springs from my chest. I want to wallow in the mud like a swine, but instead I take to flight like the eagle. I am not looking for prey as I soar. I am searching for liberation from the lies I would believe. The lies I tell myself. The lies I hear from others. A man cannot live on bread alone, he says. No, he needs to live on freedom from himself as well.
This moment must end. There are responsibilities to be met, money that must be made, people that must be helped. The sigh that pours from my soul begs for a morning that never ends; where words can be written and stories shared as a way to accomplish all things that face me this day. A sigh that is a prayer to something to see me through yet another moment of being something else. A sigh that is a hope that somehow, someday, tomorrow’s morning will be different.