Category: Sunrise

From Everywhere and Nowhere At Once

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There is a gold light in certain old paintings
That represents a diffusion of sunlight.
It is like happiness, when we are happy.
It comes from everywhere and from nowhere at once, this light…
One day the sickness shall pass from the earth for good.
The orchard will bloom;
Our work will be seen as strong and clean and good
And all that we suffered through having existed
Shall be forgotten as though it had never existed.
~Donald Justice – excerpt from Collected Poems

I live where golden hour light is doled out sparingly
– we just might get too used to it –
where gray clouds tend to mute and muffle the spirit.

So I search for light as if it is buried like treasure.

When gilded light illuminates and glows,
when all is immersed and lifted by its radiance,
I forget the gray, as if it never was.

So I wait patiently, ready for another such burst of joy
coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
A moment in time to be preserved, not to be forgotten.

Delivered New Each Morning

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Honestly, it was the morning sky.

November sun, rare this year,
knocking at the edges of the earth,
sending up flares —
pink, yellow,
that soft peach tone
peculiar to pre-winter,

and my dawn-clear eyes
drew to the window
and beyond
and then I wasn’t really there
in the kitchen, not quite,

like some long bony hand
reached in and through glass,
pulled me through
and I slipped from carpet to deck
without shattering,

or maybe I did stumble to the door
and unlock, and step down,
and feel the leaf-lined decking
against my calloused soles.

No matter how,
I got there,
was there,
right there
with a grace that is
the invitation to stop.

And stare.

And occupy a moment,
allow my edges
to soften
and begin to expand
and take up space
so there is only moment,
not me
or sunrise
or window
or cold,

and that was my detangling,
my daily decision
to keep tender hold
to this life
as if it were orphan
and I, some great full breast,
was made to receive this
tiny bawling thing

delivered new
each break of morning,

and shape it with my hands,
and be all things nourishing,
and love it well, as it was made,
before releasing it
to its own
destined wind.
~Melinda Coppola “It was the morning sky”

Each morning I wake before sunrise,
urged forth from my warm bed
as if called to soothe a hungry crying child.

Instead, it is I who is empty,
humbled to insignificance
to witness sky spilling abundant colors.

In response, I pour out everything I have,
to feed and fill each new emerging dawn,
through wondering words of grateful praise.


An Unvanquished November Sun

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Than these November skies
Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep;
Into their grey the subtle spies
Of colour creep,
Changing that high austerity to delight,
Till ev’n the leaden interfolds are bright.
And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peers
Ere a thin flushing cloud again
Shuts up that loveliness, or shares.
The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, as
Reluctant the quick sun should shine in vain,
Holding in bright caprice their rain.
And when of colours none,
Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green,
Is truly seen, —
In all the myriad grey,
In silver height and dusky deep, remain
The loveliest,
Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.
~John Freeman “November Skies”

November is a barren landscape growing peasant-bare and farmer-plain with austerity. Even so, the month is often offset by a royal light show in the skies. I am able to witness golden and purple hues in the light show of the rising and setting sun.

The sky has subtlety and nuance, not unlike what we see in a beloved aging face. Indeed, a remembered beauty is visible behind myriad gray. The horizon’s folds, lines and wrinkles are glowing with lambent light and depth.

Despite these darkening days, our sun is never vanquished. May I be illuminated like these incredible skies, my grayness enrobed within royal golds and purples.

Days of Special Radiance

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Now over everything the autumn light is thrown
And every line is sharp and every leaf is clear,
Now without density or weight the airy sun
Sits in the flaming boughs, an innocent fire
That shines but does not burn nor wither.
The leaves, light-penetrated, change their essence,
Take on the gold transparence of the weather,
Are touched by death, then by light’s holy presence.

So we, first touched by death, were changed in essence,
As if grief grew transparent and turned to airy gold
And we were given days of special radiance,
Light-brimmed, light-shaken, and with love so filled
It seemed the heartbeat of the world was in our blood,
And when we stood together, love was everywhere,
And no exchange was needed, if exchange we could
The blessedness of sunlight poised on air.
~May Sarton “Poem in Autumn”

The brightness of the day becomes
the brightness of the night;
the fire becomes the mirror.

My friend the earth is bitter; I think
sunlight has failed her.
Bitter or weary, it is hard to say.
Between herself and the sun,
something has ended.

She wants, now, to be left alone;
I think we must give upturning to her for affirmation.
Above the fields, above the roofs of the village houses,
the brilliance that made all life possible
becomes the cold stars.

Lie still and watch: they give nothing but ask nothing.
From within the earth’s bitter disgrace,
coldness and barrenness
my friend the moon rises:
she is beautiful tonight,
but when is she not beautiful?
~Louise Glück from “October”

photo by Ben Gibson

This October Sabbath morning,
gray clouds lie heavy and unrelenting,
hovering low over the eastern hills.

A moment’s light snuck out from under the covers,
throwing back the blankets
to glow golden over the valley.

Only a minute of unexpected light underneath the gray,
then gone in a heartbeat (as are we) – yet –
O!  the Glory when we shine luminous together.

Making a Comment

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And that is just the point…
how the world, moist and beautiful,
calls to each of us to make a new and serious response.

That’s the big question,
the one the world throws at you every morning.
“Here you are, alive.
Would you like to make a comment?”
~Mary Oliver

The last few days, it has been impossible to stay
a silent observer of the world when one awakes,
still alive on a morning moist and beautiful,
while on the other side of the earth,
innocents have been brutally butchered in their beds,
whole families murdered,
bodies desecrated and dragged into the street.

It demands a response.

I cannot remain speechless in the face of evil.
Such violence, fed by generations of hatred,
begets more hatred and violence, on and on.
It festers, blusters, rips apart, tortures, buries.
And so it goes, an ongoing human history
of wars and more wars.

And here I am,
alive on a brilliant autumn morning,
while others immeasurably suffer.

Called to make a new and serious response.
Called to comment, as I do every day.
Knowing my voice is only one
in a vast wilderness of voices,
crying out in lament over the dead and dying.

Lord, have mercy, have mercy, have mercy on us.

Consider donations to assist humanitarian aid
to Save the Children or Doctors without Borders

Under My Eyelashes

barnstormingblog1 Comment
9/24/2023 -7:12 AM
9/24/22 6:55 AM
9/24/21 6:34 AM
9/24/20 7:22 AM

You can
die for it-
an idea,
or the world. People
have done so,
brilliantly,
letting
their small bodies be bound
to the stake,
creating
an unforgettable
fury of light. But
this morning,
climbing the familiar hills
in the familiar
fabric of dawn, I thought
of China,
and India
and Europe, and I thought
how the sun
blazes
for everyone just
so joyfully
as it rises
under the lashes
of my own eyes, and I thought
I am so many!
What is my name?
What is the name
of the deep breath I would take
over and over
for all of us? Call it
whatever you want, it is
happiness, it is another one
of the ways to enter
fire.
~Mary Oliver “Sunrise”

9/24/19 6:55 AM
9/24/18 6:50 AM
9/24/17 7:03 AM
9/24/17 (later)
9/24/17 (even later~)

Over the years, I have not missed many early autumn sunrises – most I have not recorded as they are often gray and rainy.

This particular day of September – the 24th – has been a treasure trove of color and cloud patterns and light for the last decade. Today I share these with you in their variety and beauty.

Every day, let us watch the sun rise with its light under our eyelashes – the fire of happiness illuminating us all as morning breaks open, like the First Day.

9/24/16
9/24/15
9/24/14

No Longer Young and Still Half-Perfect

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Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the travellers journey is done.
~William Blake from “Ah Sun-flower”

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever
~Mary Oliver “Messenger” from Thirst

My boots are old and leaky and my coat is torn. I’m no longer young but I still go out into the world every day to find something to smile about.

A time-weary sunflower hangs its head to stare down at its roots, no longer able to lift its face to greet the sun as it rises or bid it farewell as it sinks into the horizon. Still very much alive, it focuses instead on where it came from, putting its energy into the seeds, to make sure there is a next generation, and a next and a next.

That is more than half-perfect.
That is its work in this world and that is my work these days.

Weary at times but rejoicing.
Withered and torn and weather-beaten
but still capable of joy and wonder that
we are so deeply loved as we are.

Out of a Misty Dream

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They are not long,
The weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.

They are not long,
The days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.
~Ernest Dowson “They are not long…”
“Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam”
(Our brief sum of life forbids us to embark upon a protracted hope)

photo by Joel DeWaard


When I consider the bittersweet brevity of life,
I don’t think how much I will miss wine and roses.
Eventually, when I pass through the gate,
it will be other loves that determine my path
into the misty night:

My husband’s kind eyes and gentle hands
Hugs and snuggles with grandkids
Worship and prayer and potlucks with church family
Just-baked bread and dark chocolate
The smell and sound of long-awaited rain
Ponies and puppies
Scent of sweetpeas and taste of green peas in the pod
Tunes of bouncy bluegrass and familiar folk songs
Birdsong in the morning and frog chorus at night
Wistful sunsets, and more so, welcoming sunrises

and ever so much more…

We are called forth from here to a hope beyond imagining.
This is only a taste.

photo by Josh Scholten

Gathering the Heavens

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With my arms raised in a vee,
I gather the heavens and bring
my hands down slow together,
press palms and bow my head.

I try to forget the suffering,
the wars, the ravage of land
that threatens songbirds,
butterflies, and pollinators.

The ghosts of their wings flutter
past my closed eyes as I breathe
the spirit of seasons, the stirrings
in soil, trees moving with sap.

With my third eye, I conjure
the red fox, its healthy tail, recount
the good of this world, the farmer
tending her tomatoes, the beans

dazzled green al dente in butter,
salt and pepper, cows munching
on grass. The orb of sun-gold
from which all bounty flows.
~Twyla Hansen “Trying to Pray” from Rock. Tree. Bird. 

the thorn
that is heavier than lead—
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging—

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted—

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
~Mary Oliver from  “Morning Poem”

A Sabbath sunrise becomes unspoken prayer –
I open my hands and arms to it,
closing my eyes, bowing my head,
giving myself over to silent gratitude.

Gathering up the heavens, the sun moves
from subtle simmer to blazing boil.

I trudge forward every day,
each step in itself a prayer answered;
thankful I can still take a next step,
and a next, until I reach tomorrow
and again after that, I celebrate
there will be a next tomorrow.

Amen.

True Stars at Daybreak

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photo by Nate Gibson

On the tidal mud, just before sunset,
dozens of starfishes
were creeping. It was
as though the mud were a sky
and enormous, imperfect stars
moved across it as slowly
as the actual stars cross heaven.
All at once they stopped,
and, as if they had simply
increased their receptivity
to gravity, they sank down
into the mud, faded down
into it and lay still, and by the time
pink of sunset broke across them
they were as invisible
as the true stars at daybreak.
~Galway Kinnell “Daybreak”

photo by Nate Gibson

We know the stars,
heavenly or terrestrial,
still shine,
though made invisible by a brighter light –
hidden in plain sight at daybreak
yet always throwing sparks,
ever eternally lit,
immersed but never overwhelmed
within the muddy dark.