Mornings are strange places. They are an urging, a calling, a welcoming. But often they are a desperation, a question, a challenge. We define it, the way we lean into it. But by its mere presence, it provides space to our lives.
If we seek to be presences, knowing how to let the universe pass through us such that we can be witnesses to our own lives and to the world, we can let the morning be a blessing. But if we seek to fight battles with its incessant periodicity, cursing it for its quotidian challenge and insistences, then we move into a war zone, battling the spear of our despairing hope with our armour of resistance.
In a mentality which sees change as a needless challenge, each day is a burden to be carried through. We often wake up with either the hauntings of the night or with the dread of having an endless day.
But. If you flip a switch inside and see the abundance being laid out for us, daily, day in day out, our lives suddenly fill up with an aching extravaganza. The question then is - how NOT to waste this blessing.
What we really need to do is to lean into the morning with a mind clear of everything. We just need to listen to the morning sounds, just see it’s colours, run our fingers through its textures. We just need to let the universe frame our questions and give us the answers.
When we let the world carry our burden for us, then mornings are a prayer and the day a benediction.
The Poem:
I woke up my head muddled
with what the day would demand
the this and that of life,
what to do first and what last.
.
I stepped out into the world,
freshly minted with the rains,
the trees bathed and preening,
the flowers demure in their love.
.
The path was slippery to the sole,
moss alive on the edge -
what is washed clean in the night,
is just a nudge to a sleepy soul.
.
And then something soft echoed,
as I stood under a showering tree,
a sound like a prayer in passing,
touching the skin, and then the soul.
.
Something in me sought to find meaning,
something else said - just lean into it,
it could be the om of the morning,
urging us to find what’s still.
.
I just stood there and listened,
to the wind chimes of the skies -
for believing is often mere presence,
there’s little else anyone could ask.
Robert Frost said that poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.
Hear the poem:
If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the magic of mornings: