“The sun also rises, and the sun goes down,
And hastens to the place where it arose.”
Ecclesiastes 1:5-7
A couple of stories ago, I wrote about my neighbor cleaning off a really shitty, plastic chair and non-matching, equally stylish, little table. I got into the habit, a seriously, neurotic Achilles heel of mine, of sitting outside in the evenings. Even if it was for a song and a half, it still satisfied that need of mine for routine. Earbuds jammed in my ears, my favorite music exploding my mind, there I am, relaxing from the day, drawing to a close.
Quite by accident, an unplanned miracle for me, I found myself going outside each morning, just in time for sunrise. The evening business had kind of fallen by the wayside, because I stopped caring about it, busy each evening, getting my shit together for my reheated, Beer Company meal and the first of several glasses of wine. God Forbid, I should even have a fucken wine glass. It’s an ugly six ounce glass, with a dumb-ass logo on it. I like the small glass, because a couple of half-full ones and I have reached my self-imposed limit, feeling like more than it is.
Let’s get back to morning, because it’s where this story really belongs. Usually, my Zen sit is done, still in the dark. Before sitting, almost always maneuvering by touch, I fill the electric water-boiler, grab the only cup in the drain and place my one-cup filter on top. I inhale a glass of water and then stumble over to my cushion, for twenty-five minutes of a really shitty meditation. I have been sitting for nearly thirty-five years and I am proud to say, I suck at it. The good news is the Buddha knows and he is cool with it.
After mumbling some Japanese prayers, holding my palms together in something called gassho, I manage to get up and then bow three times. I gotta tell you, bowing is so cool. It lets you know how small you are in this gigantic, timeless universe. Then, I impatiently pour the boiled water through the filter, waiting a life-time for the cup to fill with my daily java. Each morning, I marvel at my frustration.
I take my cup and go outside, facing east, as the sun comes to light and life in the sky. I sit on the cheap-ass chair when it isn’t wet with morning dew, or else the steps do just fine. The first morning I had this experience, I wished I was a better writer, because I knew I had to share this experience with you. Every morning since, I just can’t find the fucken adjectives to describe what I see. Truth be told, I am not sure there is meant to be a language to describe this magic, stone cold magic.
My morning cup of hot black coffee, all by itself, is a full-on sensory orgasm for me. Then, I am out there in utter disbelief at this sky privilege I have been gifted.
At the risk of sounding like some trite idiot, it is never the same. Every morning is a brand new view. The colors, the clouds, the wind, the birds, you name it. Sometimes, actually most times, I can’t just sit still. I hold the cup close to my heart. I walk around, trying to get a better view of the day’s birth. I am so happy. I feel like I’m a member of a club of one, because no one else could possibly feel what I do.
Needless to say, leave it to yours truly to come up with some grand idea about the nature of life and I did. Not only that, I know it’s the truth, which is even worse. I’ll get to that at the end, trust me.
One morning, I woke up too early. I looked out at the blackened, night sky and there she was, a sliver of moon, lit from below, as the sun was making his way up to the lip of the horizon. Above the moon was a pinpoint of light, a planet whose name doesn’t matter in the story. After what seemed like waiting forever, the sun climbed its way above the skyline. The moon and that brilliant speck of light, bid the heavens good morning and returned to the night sky somewhere, rebirthing around this circle of earth.
I took a photograph, through the lens of a long-forgotten iPhone iteration. I went from the true heavenly vision to the poorly captured image, courtesy of our fine technology. These wondrous mirages belong on a canvas, because they are purely, subjective experiences, interpreted differently by each pair of eyes that happen upon it. There can’t be a perfect picture.
Every single morning is unique in a way that makes any adjectives completely inaccurate. No sky is ever the same. The clouds inhabiting each morning’s birth of light are without peer, in color, shape and movement. Sometimes, they look like the white hot, glowing yellow embers in a fire pit. Other times, they are these amorphous, grey shrouds, failing to stop the eternal birth of the morning’s nascent light force. Birds, often single or in formation, shoot across the sky in a winged ballet, seemingly having no idea where they’re going, but having purpose nevertheless. All the greenery below applauds the show, the wind never repeating their moves, one morning to the next.
These experiences have helped drive home the meaning of impermanence to me. I can go out the same time each day, but nothing else is the same, perishable beyond that slice of a moment. The only thing that seems to live on one morning to the next is the sheer joy I feel, privileged to bear witness to life’s refusal to ever repeat itself. The only constant is the electric jubilation. I feel blessed to be so privileged, the sole audience to this dance of forever.
A couple of days ago, I stumbled across a quote that says what I have been trying to convey with thousands and thousands of words. We think we see things the way THEY are. The ice-pick dagger of truth, between-the-eyes is we see things the way WE are. My every morning experience is who I am and not what it is.
I love you all and love this Sunday morning sun’s rise through my eyes to my heart.
Blessings.
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