Ode to a Sunrise

Oh, to view a sunrise.

To see that huge ball of brilliant orange light, peeking above the trees, reflecting on the mirrored lake. The orchestra of colors in the sky, as the morning sun lights the clouds from beneath, transforming them into the pink and gold frosting on the Birthday Cake of Life.

It’s a new day. It’s your day. Made just for you. All 8 billion of you. It’s our day. And the whole world is waking up to all the possibilities thereof.

A family of ducks flies in V-formation, hovering above the water. I hear their voices bouncing off the waves. I wonder what they’re saying. (“How come Harold always gets to fly at the front?”)

And in the faroff, there is the perpetual noise of a barking dog, reminding its negligent owner that, hey, the sun is up, so it’s time for said owner to get off his or her fat assumptions and feed them breakfast. This turns out to be my dog.

And everything just feels brand new. Fresh. Perfect. Untainted. Newborn. Newfound. Newmade. Unspoiled. Original.

There have been one trillion six hundred fifty-eight billion one hundred ninety-five million sunrises since the earth was formed. And each one is STILL just like the first.

Sunrises have not changed in the last 5.453 billion years. Each dawn is identical to history’s inaugural sunup. And I think that’s nice.

Because, God knows, everything else on this planet has changed. Forests have been cut down. The Fruited Plains have been mowed over to make space for another Red Lobster, Ulta, and Best Buy. The Purple Mountains Majesty have all been bought by real estate developers. Everyhing is always changing, from Sea to Shining Oil Slick.

But not sunrises. Each daybreak is still unsullied by the hands of man. No corporation got involved in the business of sunrises and attached their billboard to the sun. No politician bribed the sun in exchange for a public endorsement. The sun has not been involved in a sex scandal that we know of.

Somehow, each morning earth has no memory. All of the tears that came before this morning are gone. All the suffering that preceded today has been purged.

There is no past. It’s just an illusion. There is no future, that’s just sci-fi. There is only right now.

Now is all you have. Now is all you’ve ever had, Grasshopper. Now is all there will ever be. And what are you going to do with Now?

How will you spend Now? What will you do with your gift? It’s still brand new, in the packaging, with the label and everything.

Will you waste time worrying, and trade in Now for Tomorrow? Will you be a workaholic, and stay so busy that at some point today you sadly look at your clock and remark, “Where has today GONE?”

Or will you hold this day with affection, like a chubby kid holds an ice cream cone? Will you take small bites? Will you let it beautifully melt onto your shirt? Will you fully immerse yourself in this day? What will you do?

Well, I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to feed my dog breakfast.