"A certain day became a presence to me;
there it was, confronting me—a sky, air, light:
a being. And before it started to descend
from the height of noon, it leaned over
and struck my shoulder as if with
the flat of a sword, granting me
honor and task. That day's blow
rang out, metallic—or was it I, a bell awakened,
and what I heard was my whole self
saying and singing what it knew: I can."
"No eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn."
December may be dark. And in January the Light begins to return. We hardly notice. It's just a few more minutes each day. We might do well to notice that incremental increase.
I don't get too worked up over a new year. And while I wish that I woke every morning with a sense of gratitude and wonder, I don't. Some days are amazing dawns. Sometimes I wake up with curiosity and some open questions—even an open heart. And some days, in January, I am greeted with new snow and blue skies and I remember that it's lucky grace to wake up at all. But sometimes I do waste the dawn, and the day. And sometimes I push the day away, like it was one day among so many.
One recent Summer I spent nearly 40 days in my tent. My body really did adjust to the cycles of Light. I never missed a dawn—poking my head out of the zippered warmth with some sort of daily wonder. A new day is a very real thing. Sometimes we have to witness the dawn, slowly and quietly, just to remember that simple truth. A new day, or a new year, does not cure ills, absolve injustice, or heal a broken heart. But it is still, for just a moment, a new thing. And with it comes a new life—even if for just a moment.
"See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
and streams in the wasteland."