Some mornings beg for words to describe them. Others beg to be left alone in silence. The mornings may possess all the same characteristics; they may look identical in the eyes of an uninvolved observer. But to the person deeply engaged in those mornings, the two appear radically different from one another, calling for two utterly different responses to them. Maybe, then, it’s not the mornings that beg for the two different responses. Maybe it’s the mental terrain of the observer that imbues the mornings with such different desires. I know those utterly different terrains. One seems to echo the scene of a cool, windy, seaside cliff overlooking monstrous waves crashing onto the shoreline below. The other mimics an arid, hot desert scene of muted browns and tans stretching to the horizon in every direction.
Most mornings simply slip by without calling attention to themselves. Whether rainy or sunny, warm or cool, they slink past our consciousness like timid rabbits. Regardless of their tendency toward timidity, those nondescript introductions to the day merit a closer look. They warrant more focused examinations because beneath even featureless experiences can conceal insights or adventure. Excitement can arise on the dreariest of grey days just as easily as it can spring from sparkling clear and crisp cerulean skies. It pays to pay attention, in other words. Otherwise, opportunities for elation can pass us by, poorer but none-the-wiser for our disinterested poverty.
And, so, there you have it. A warning, an admonition, a clue to the generosity of experience. Days are what they are and what we make of them.
