In what a way does this valley awake with this brand new day? At five-fifteen 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-thirty; 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 single worry.
The first chirps of the waking birds mark the beginning 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. I feel a twinkling of reverence and inexpressible innocence for life in this moment of darkness, when Heaven in perfect silence opens up its bright eye. The night sky slowly fills up with pastels of purple and a lit up purpose.
The birds tweet towards the sky, not with any kind of fluent song, but with an awakening question that is their dawn, their state at that blind spot of morning’s 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 begin to wake up. They manifest themselves as what they are, birds, and with love, they begin to sing. In the present, they will be wholly themselves, and they will fly away to where they are meant to be.
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.
The business that wisdom affords has always sought to collect and manifest itself at that blind, sweet spot. That perfected 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 to be me from anyone, even myself, for that matter. 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 alive and very much breathing, which means there is still, in fact, some time.
I do know that time is what I have, to often, used as a method to dictate my own unnecessary terms. I suppose I was born with a inward ticker within my chest that has proven this to me from the very start of my life. I know what the time is and isn’t important in the moment. I am more than in touch this morning than most days with something not of this world, and still very much unknown to me.
I talk to myself, and the Man Upstairs, out loud as to what I wish to lay with the day ahead of me. And if necessary, I know, I must maneuver my feet with the necessary adjustments to make the day meet whatever it is I seek.
As for the birds there is not a time that they are aware of, or at least, I’m not aware if they are. But it is at that blind spot between the darkness and the light—between being and non-being—when they authentically awaken.
I am more than able to 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 the 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 awaken: first the stellar jays and some that I must confess, I do not know. Later come the song filled sparrows and pacific wrens. At last, come the crows. The waking of the crows is most like the waking of man—querulous, boisterous, loud, and a little rough around the edges of serenity.
I look to discern through the serene silence of this morning wild with delicate contemplation. In the silence I see an unspeakable secret, spoken sweet through the sunlight and with the whippoorwill. Somewhere, something incredible is just waiting to be known.
And in this innocent moment I know, love thrives all around us but we do not care to understand. We cannot discern, because with reverence we do not listen. Everything—if we just let it be as it is—is as blissful and free as this morning’s sun saturated valley.
The blade of reverence is slowly 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 cosmic airwaves with such distracting static. Reverence for the love of life suffers.
“Wisdom,” screams the morning sunlight and the birds beacon, though sadly, we choose to ignore them, because we are too busy to give ourselves the time to pay attention to what really matters.
And, at last, at six-fifteen I hear the resonating hoot from a well-traveled owl, which means…
It’s time I got my ass to work.