In what a way does this valley awake today? At four-fifty in the morning there is not a single noise except in this sleepy head of mine—the bells ring, thoughts begin. Outside, nothing, except perhaps the cicadas, singing songs of yin and yang. The surreptitious and ceaseless whooping of a whippoorwill begins about five-fifteen; some mornings she is not always near. Sometimes there are two whooping together, a mile a way in the wild just west of here. The sun will soon wake without a worry.
The first chirps of the waking birds mark the point of that blind, sweet spot of a new day, under a dark and deep sky that is yet to fathom light, except that of the distant sparkles of Heaven. There is a twinkling of reverence and inexpressible innocence in this moment, when Heaven in perfect silence opens its eyes. The night sky begins to fill bright with pastels of purple and purpose.
The birds tweet towards Heaven, not with any kind of fluent song, but with an awakening question that is their dawn, their state at that virgin point of creation. By the sounds of their condition, they are asking if it is time for them to “be.” He answers “yes.” One by one they wake up. They manifest themselves as what they are, birds, and they begin to sing. In the present, they will be wholly themselves, and they will fly.
In the meantime, the most delightful part of the day fast approaches. That moment when creation thrives in its innocence and asks permission to just “be” once again, as it had to have done on the first day that ever was.
Wisdom has always sought to collect and manifest itself at that blind, sweet spot. That point of innocent creation.
My wisdom though does not always succeed, for I have fallen into a shoving match with self-mastery and do not seek the permission of anyone. I have too often faced these mornings with a lost and fearless purpose. And still I am not entirely sure what that purpose is, but I am breathing, and that means there is still time.
I know that time is what I have, to often, used as a method to dictate my own necessary terms. I suppose I was born with a inward ticker within my chest that has proven this to me from the very start. I know what the time is and isn’t important. I am more than in touch this morning than most days with the inward universal and divine law. I talk to myself out loud as to what I wish to lay with the day ahead. And if necessary I must maneuver my steps with the necessary adjustments to make me meet whatever it needs.
As for the birds there is not a time that they are aware of, or I’m not aware if they are. But it is at that virgin point between darkness and light, between nonbeing and being, when they awaken.
I tell myself the time by their waking, this from my experience of timing. This folly though is left to my own undertaking, and not theirs. What’s worse than said folly is that I think these birds and this rising sun are telling me something I consider to be useful, for example, it’s six o’clock in the morning. I’ve got to start getting ready for work.
So the birds awake: first the stellar jays and some that I do not know. Later come the song filled sparrows and pacific wrens. At last, come the doves and the crows. The waking of crows is most like the waking of myself—querulous, boisterous, fresh, and a little raw.
I listen to the silence of the wild. In the silence I hear an unspeakable secret, spoken with the sun and through the whippoorwill. Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.
Heaven is all around us and we do not understand. We cannot see, because with love we do not listen. It is as wide open and free as this sun saturated valley.
The blade of reverence is being ripped from our hands, and we do not know it. Each and every one of us are off, “each to our job and another to their merchandise.”
Lights on. Clocks tick. Thermostats rise. Ovens cook. Cash registers cha-ching. Smartphones fill the universal radio with static. Reverence for life suffers.
“Wisdom,” cries the morning sun and the birds beacon, though we choose to ignore them.
“But should we?”