Morning Watch

I am not a morning person, but I was having trouble sleeping at the retreat center where I was staying, so I figured I might as well get up and see the sun rise from that first sliver of light on the horizon, when you can still see the starry sky above. In the following days I woke each morning to see what the new sunrise would bring; when conditions are just right there is a beautiful progression of colors until that bright orange egg yolk pops over the horizon. I found this practice, called “morning watch” to be a beautiful time for meditation and prayer. I was, at the time, grieving the recent death of my father, and so it was often a tearful time, but the beauty and peace of early morning and the transition to day was comforting, something I looked forward to each day.

One morning, though it was cold and damp, I woke up in the grey light, and walked to the top of a hill with my blanket. I waited, and waited and all that happened was that the sky changed from one shade of grey to another. The hills were cloaked in fog, and not a glimpse of color or sun could be seen. It was a no-sun sunrise. Still I took the time to mediate and pray, lingering, gazing at the horizon even longer that I might have if the bright sun had made it uncomfortable to watch. I sat with my disappointment and sadness -- not only for the missed sunrise, but for other losses in my life. I had grown to depend on that touchstone, a practice that had always rewarded patience with comfort and beauty and light.

I grumbled to my reflection group later that day about the “no-sun sunrise”. A friend pointed out that actually “the sun still rose” whether we could see it or not, which I grudgingly had to agree was factually correct.

My friend Sophie Marie, class of 2020

The no-sun sunrise came to mind as we enter graduation season. Graduates and their families are sad from the loss of pomp and circumstance, of ceremonies and parties -- the rites of passage that seemed inevitable and universal. We assume after you put in that hard work, when you are finally done, beauty and light, festivities and family and friends would mark the occasion. Perhaps there is a milestone in your own life that you had expected to celebrate with friends and family -- the birth or birthday of a grandchild, an anniversary or retirement. Perhaps this feels like a no-sun sunrise.

I woke one morning recently at a place that normally has a beautiful view of the sunrise, and wondered if the grey skies portended a grey and sun-less sunrise. Should I stay in bed, or have my morning watch? I got up, and sat in my favorite chair to wait. I meditated, and prayed, and watched the subtle changes in the shades of grey. No peek of color or sun. Nevertheless I sat and watched; I didn’t want to miss the sunrise, whether it was showy and pink, or quiet and grey.

To all you marking transitions this year, I grieve with you that they are not glowing with joy as they have in other years. The loss of that is real. At the same time, however this transition unfolds for you, that is real too, and it is yours. It is just as precious and unique as any other. The sun is still rising. You have still accomplished something real and important. Blessings to you in this tender and challenging time. It is still full of beauty and light, just behind the clouds.