You can’t see the sunrise from my house, it rises behind the hills and a tall building, so when I travel someplace with a clear view of the sunrise it is a special treat. When I can get myself out of bed in time, I love to see the whole sunrise, from the first crack of light over the horizon until the sun finally pops up like a big egg yolk. It seems to take about 45 minutes or longer for the whole process to unfold, a progression of beautiful colors that evolve and change . Twilight is the official name for this period that is neither fully dark nor fully light, though the official definitions make no allowance for the beautiful pink clouds that linger on special days even after the sun is up. I was visiting the lake earlier this winter and heard that there was a beautiful view of the sunrise just down the block from where we were staying. I woke early and bundled up in all my winter gear, grabbed my camera and trudged out into the snow. Indeed, it was beautiful to see the pink, orange and yellow over the frozen lake, to watch the birds gathering at the edge of the ice, and to hear the dawn chorus begin and grow. I was in luck; it was one of those fortuitous mornings with just the right mix of clouds and open sky. The show was impressive, and changed in beautiful ways, each moment beautiful and unique. I took a preposterous number of photos, but when I reviewed them later, I confirmed that each one was stunning and each one was subtly or dramatically different.
It was, however, also bitter cold, and windy. I had been standing there admiring the beauty for at least half an hour by the time my friend made it out. I could see by my clock and by the fluorescent glow on the bottoms of the clouds closest to the horizon that the sun had probably risen, but had not yet made it over the hills and into view. I remembered from previous sunrises that the long-awaited moment when the sun does appear in its full power is impossible to watch—if you view it for even one second you then have a sun-shaped blob in your vision for a while. I decided to head back inside. My friend urged me to stay – “you’ll miss the best part!” she warned. Despite her warning I headed back toward warmth of the house, casting the occasional backward glance toward the sun. I remembered that sometimes as the sun finally rises, there are beautiful pink colors in the north and west as well. I took some lovely photos of those subtle cotton candy clouds on my way home too. Later, as I sat at my computer and looked at the embarrassing riches of photos documenting that long hour I spent in the cold watching morning begin, I thought to myself “I don’t think I did miss the best part.”
Twilight is a rich metaphor for a time of transition, since it is an in-between time -- not-day and not-night but a journey between. Our lives are full of transition times, and right now I imagine many of us are going through some big transitions together. Watching the sunrise (or sunset when I have a nice view of the west) reminds me how beautiful transitions can be, a beauty that is no longer visible once the sun has fully risen, or night has fully come. Whenever the transitions you are experiencing seem endless, and you long to finally arrive in the new future, whatever that may be, I encourage you to remember the beauty of twilight, and as you are able, to notice whatever beauty you can find, to be curious about the unique sights and sounds and feelings of the transitional times. Consider adopting a spiritual practice of inviting your attention into the present moment, noticing the subtle changes as the transition unfolds. Bring your curiosity and a beginner’s mind, keeping an eye out for “best parts” that may reveal themselves along the way.
