Reach Up for the Sunrise

Much as I love the fall, I am no fan of getting up before the sun. Hauling the compostable container from my toasty comfy bed to shuffle down a cold dark hallway, flipping on lights as I go, seems to get harder with each successive weekday morning.

We are now past the fall equinox. The sun rises almost an hour after I do, and about twenty minutes before Ter and I leave for work. On a clear morning, I eat my breakfast while watching a spectacular show. On a clear morning, I watch the sun rise from the Ocean Room window.

It’s a remarkable thing when the gold spark winks above the horizon. Time stops. An unexpected serenity settles over me. I stand transfixed in a gradually spreading pool of warm toffee light. Every cell in my being leans toward it. I unfold like a flower. I raise my arms as if to embrace the glory and bring it to my heart. On a good day, I carry it with me. On a not-so-good day, I cherish the moment and head out the door only to pause on the front stoop and marvel once more at the gift of living across the street from a daily miracle.

The sun doesn’t hurry. It comes on its own schedule, with a majesty unparalleled by any other natural phenomenon, and it happens every single day. People complain about the rain and cloud and fog and cold, and every time I say to them, “The sun is up there; you just can’t see it.”

I get a lot of funny looks, but I also get some smiles.

Almost every culture and society throughout history has associated the sun with their most powerful deity. Being a night owl, I haven’t always understood the attraction. I used to enjoy the sunset more, simply because a different kind of magic—my kind of magic—occurs after the light fades and the noisy, bustling, chaotic world goes to sleep. I used to stay up and write all night, and man, I produced a ton of stuff. I plan to do it again, once I retire from my daytime gig. I love the night. For me, it’s the most mysterious and creative and expansive time of the 24 hour cycle, and if I could stay awake past nine p.m., I’d have that darned novel in the can and be two more ahead!

Until then, however … “Sun, sun, sun, here it comes …”

Ra

One morning last week, I went across the street and sat at the beach while the sun came up. I wanted to witness the first warming spark as it breached the horizon. Not through my window or my camera, with no company; just Ru and Ra. The sky was brushed with pink cotton clouds, the ocean cloaked in a pale gold mist. The sky was robin’s egg blue near the water, then changed higher up to something brighter and brassier yet richer and deeper at the same time. Amazing. I placed myself directly in line with the spot where I figured the initial ray would appear, a step down on the breakwater, regrettably not far enough to avoid the “pound pound pound, huff huff huff”, but far enough that it wouldn’t matter once the show started. Then, I waited. Watched. Listened. Marvelled.

A gang of crows were hanging out on the rocks below me. As the eastern halo intensified, one of the crows erupted into “caw caw caw” and the whole flock took wing, buzzing so close to my head that I heard the wind whuffing through their feathers. They landed on the rail that runs along Dallas Road; the ringleader cawed again, and they all turned toward the sun. I was so fascinated by their behaviour that I almost forgot to turn myself. The gulls were doing something similar down in the water, gathering to greet the new day.

The light changed again, the golden halo shrinking and glowing harder, fiercer. The water was still, the birds quiet. No joggers, go figure. Then the first tiny gleam, bright minted gold, peered over the silhouetted houses on the far side of the bay. One single spark—then two, as the shape of a house split the atom; then three as the earth tipped a little further and the topmost arc of the corona rose above the shadow peak. The ocean caught fire, my retinas began to sizzle, and I glanced down to watch the fire line stretch across the water. The clouds turned white. The mist disappeared. The sky assumed a pure polished blue as the sunlight itself gradually eased from intense orange gold to sparkling silver and, finally, to blazing white.

Now, I know that the sun is actually a gargantuan rock roiling with combustible gas and belching fire. I also know that the sun doesn’t move. We do. Sunrise, sunset, and the path in between are optical illusions driven by the earth’s tilt, rotation, and orbit. Daybreak and twilight are a blend of physics and perception. Sometimes I feel as if I am made from the same blend. Someone once told me that I am the calmest person she knows. I was gobsmacked—and oddly touched that she would perceive my energy the way we perceive the sun’s: as a warm and nourishing presence.

I suppose I could laugh it off (I actually think I did), but deep down, her observation stayed with me. So when I watched the sun rise serenely over the ocean that day last week, I remembered what she said … and that it’s a good idea not to get too close.

There’s nothing serene about a billion degree burn.

The First Day of Winter

Cold. Grey. Damp. Appropriate for midnight in the natural year. All is quiet. Trees are still, birds are notably absent. It should feel disturbing, but it doesn’t. The world is only asleep. Dreaming. We are the things of forced activity and deliberate wakefulness, yet many of us – despite the drive to motion – are somnambulant.

I don’t officially celebrate the solstice, but I am aware. In some places and some cultures, December 21 marks the turning point, the end of the old year and the start of a new. The rebirth of the annual cycle begins. Candles are lit to ward off the dark. Wishes are made and the past is released. My day passed as usual, but for a split-second hidden within the blink of my eye, the world paused in its orbit, let go of the past, and proceeded into the future.

The sun rose a bit earlier this morning.

Sunrise, Sunset

Sunrise September 13. 2013

 
Ter sent me out last night to take pictures of the sunset (which I did) and since today is my last day of these holidays, it seemed an appropriate subject for the final daily post here at the Rebellion.
 
'Course, I had to take a couple of pics of the sunrise to go with it. Shooting into the sun can be a bit tricky, though - I really like this one, but the angle makes it look like it was taken from a rocking boat and the sun itself didn't make it wholly into the frame:
 

 
The mist created a neat effect, eh? Talk about shooting through a filter.
 
Last night's sunset was far more generous. It let me play with a few more camera settings:
 

 Automatic setting - the Canon did the work

vibrant blues

 

vibrant colours, period

toy camera (good for portraits, too)

 

This morning, I have plans to continue with Shade - he took me on an unexpected trip yesterday and I want to see how it ends before I quit for the nonce. I normally write for 2.5 days straight before needing a break; by the second half of the third day, my brain is too tired to create properly, so this afternoon, I shall hie myself to the village to collect my allowance (it's payday, yay!!), hit the g/f bakery and get some more of that really good veggie rice pasta Ter cooked up the other night, then maybe treat myself not to a chai, but to a frozen yogurt at the newly-opened Qoola shop. I can sit outside and scribble a card tag to Nicole. It's a nice, late summer day. I must take advantage of it. Writing is so absorbing that the world will pass me by if I don't pull out of my own head once in a while.

I'm happy with what I have accomplished, though. Big strides with the angels, growing affection for my protagonist, lots of Ru time, and much fun pointing my loose Canon. So, on that cheery note, the sun sets on my writing holiday:

Going once...

 

going twice ...

 

going ...

 

... going ...

 

gone

With love,