Finding Them at Sunrise

Since my mom passed, it’s been my ritual to watch the sun rise at least once a month. I go up to the Overlook on 86 where we celebrated her life at the same time of day, and I wait in the darkness, like I did on that November morning, for hope to rise.

I look for hope in the sunrise and I look for them: for my mom & dad and some promise of ongoing connection. There’s something about the ritual of it that feels soothing and sacred and inviting.

So, on the eve of my 37th birthday this year, I went again… and I searched the horizon and I wrote.

I share that writing now in case there are others with scarred hearts and stubborn hope who also need an extra outlet this time of year <3

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Finding Them at Sunrise

We wait in the dark

for that first glimpse of light to come.

Sunrises,

Advent,

Birthdays when the people who birthed you are long gone.

We beg of the darkness to let light break through.

But we cannot rush it.

The darkness is methodical,

a mad man of cronos time, if you will,

the slow tick, tick, tick of the minute hand, inch by inch.

One stroke at a time, my anxiety grows.

Within me, there’s a war, a wrestle, two foes:

hope - that this could change,

that the panorama could all look different with just a bit of color,

and despair - that this may be permanently true…

darkness, stillness, barren land, and me alone, without you.

Tick, tick, tick, the minute hand goes.

Oh sure, it’s cheesy, I bet, to hear

another sunrise allegory,

more chicken soup for the wandering soul.

But… this one,

this one is about consent.

I consent —

I sit and I wait,

tick, tick. tick.

The Bible tells a story of two different kinds of time:

cronos - the one that I am experiencing right now - painstaking and slow,

and kairos - when it all happens, all at once, an appointed time, when light rushes through.

I sit now in cronos trusting for kairos.

Tick, tick, tick.

Will the steady beat of the minute hand quiet my foes?

And then I see it,

the first flash of light breaks through.

It’s gradual, and almost a little misplaced.

— It’s not at the horizon, where I expected it to be.

— It’s inbetween some clouds, due east of me.

Not so glorious at first - it’s not all those vibrant hues of color,

It’s mild, it’s neutral, a beige of sorts.

But beige does stand out in a sea of dark.

The sky loses its black;

it becomes a steely blue.

I consent to the changing of the sky,

even if it’s just a little bit,

even if it’s just one lightened cloud at a time…

tick, tick, tick.

Now a subtle pink begins to come through

— I never appreciated pink…

It was your color, not mine.

Mom, flamingoes, mumu dresses… so much pink.

You’d pick a gift out for me and say: “I made sure it wasn’t pink.”

The pink this morning reminds me of you.

Maybe the sunrise is a covenant of sorts:

a promise that if we abide in cronos time,

a kairos is guaranteed.

The sky can only be dark for so long,

and when we catch a hint of beige, we can trust:

that sudden & soon, pink will be upon us.

I bathe in the pink light now, mom.

I think you would too, dad.

We both used to cringe at her extra,

but now, like a string through time,

this pink (that is utterly vibrant now)

— this pink light,

connects me to you,

to both of you.

I cannot fathom a second journey around the sun,

without the two that made me one.

I did survive this first year.

It was a slow fucking tick, but I did survive.

I consented to the darkness, made friends with it,

let the war within my soul rage.

Hope and despair… not sure who would win,

not sure which would come out on top.

But now, I sit,

at the mercy of this pink light.

And though I don’t even know if I’m ready for its warmth

(I’ve gotten so used to the cold),

I consent again

— I let it wash over me.

There is more ahead.

And kairos is here,

beckoning me all at once

to live.

To live — I’m not sure I know how,

it’s been a long night in the dark…

all that’s familiar is survival,

and the steady beat of tick, tick, tick.

But I’ll try, mom & dad,

for you - and this glorious and stubborn pink.

I’ll embrace my 37th year,

and take in the new and lightened and colorful panorama,

with a big deep drink

— of possibility

and wonder

and curiosity

and care.

My heart still hurts,

but I guess I know who won,

… and it’s not despair.

Hope is on the horizon,

and I’m leaning in.

Consenting to pink and possibility,

in this one.