One of those mornings...
...that I wished I was a camera-person, not a word-person. Clouds cleared out overnight, and their rear guard could be seen retreating to the east, dark blue-gray against the orange and pink of the sunrise. This about 7:45. Very cold. Very. The sky was rimmed with the sunrise--all around the horizon was navy blue fading to gray fading to pink, then to sky blue. Driving down Rt. 14 towards Rt. 9, if I drove far enough on 14 I'd find South Whitley. Flat country, flat road, trees ringing the fields and stands of them sometimes in between. Big electric lines cutting through it all. Farms and houses scattered.
And that sky. As if God had inverted a sea shell over us--that delicate. Two things I wondered: how many noticed that sky? Me, and who? Perhaps when I die, the five people in heaven I will see are the five who noticed the sky this morning. And the other thing: How often must these nature patterns recur and recur before we realize how connected and related it all is? That the sky looks like a seashell, that a naked tree looks like the branch of capillaries in my body?
I turned south on Rt. 9. Almost 8 and getting lighter, but I didn't see the sun until almost to Huntington. And then a gift. For it rose in front of those last gray clouds, and it was huge and orange, perfectly round, and I almost wrecked the car as I drove and stared, and I saw the sun suspended above harvested fields, stands of stripped trees, between farms, as I got closer and closer to work. Sometimes a denser bit of cloud could be seen in front of it.
Was this sunrise all mine, or did some kindred spirit watch through a kitchen window, or some other car window, and wonder?
Some better wordsmith could right a poem about the way the sunrise rings the horizon, but I have never been able to find the rhyme in it, as much as I love it. But you know, while a camera could maybe catch the colors and composition, it could not convey the suspension of time, the coldness of the air. Even these words cannot do that. Only being there.
Now I am at work, in a gray cubicle looking at a computer screen with a heater pouring warm air out and a radio with Christmas music and I can't even see the sky. But I know it's there.