West Virginia Morning: Light Comes Earlier

The light comes earlier each morning. We wait for it—lift our faces to the sun like prayer. When I take Bonnie out this morning, the blue light of night still lingers. The stars still haven’t shut their eyes and I wave at Orion as we wind around the house. At the edge of the dome, light striations are only just beginning. To me, they look like layers of phyllo, layers of light, and the goodness of the earth’s rotation rouses a slight lift in my spirit.

The days grow longer and I still I miss my slow mornings: reading poetry out loud to God and Bonnie, sipping my coffee and underlining words. Yesterday, the sun warmed the winterstruck and Jeff and I sat out on the deck long into the night. The robins were singing their sweet-sad song and I could smell new grass, the earth melting from the outside in. I felt a holy whisper in my ear, grow, it seemed to purr.

Time. I’m always telling my patients that some things just take time. I don’t know why I’m so slow to adjust. Things linger inside my heart, resisting motion. But the way the light spills slowly into the days these mornings—this is teaching me. I’m learning how to pay attention in the midst of the busy—how to notice the kairos in the chronos.

I think it will be a life-long lesson. And I’m ok with that.

Comments

  1. Lynn D. Morrissey says

    A soothing commentary on change, and proof that not all change is scary or unwelcomed. And interesting about your take on those slow, winter mornings. though I love the breathtaking beauty of spring, each year, Laura, I’ve come to appreciate the clarity and calm of winter more and more.

    Just lovely!
    Love
    Lynn

  2. says

    that smell of the grass breaking the earth, the dampness of mornings in the in-between between winter and spring…I’m right there in your words and I am grateful…thank you, Laura

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