Dawn Musings
The final week of November, I found myself thinking about some of the simple things for which I am grateful. One morning, I was reminded of the power of forest bathing and the quiet nature of the predawn hour. In early December, days continue to grow shorter and nights longer. Sunrise does not arrive until after 7 a.m. In the predawn hour of my forested world, the sky is a dark twilight blue that will soon be magically transformed by light, witnessed by few save the woodland animals and birds.
Eager to witness that moment of luminous transformation, I layer myself in a full-length sweater coat, wrap a cashmere pashmina around my neck and shoulders, tuck my feet into a pair of fleece lined Uggs, and head out the front door to a deck chair where a cozy lap blanket greets me like an old friend. For a moment, my thoughts travel back in time. I’m back on the porch at Boomerang Creek with Kit, half a continent to the east and a lifetime ago. Wrapped up in warm robes, we are sitting in our Adirondack chairs covered with wool lap blankets. In the dark pre-dawn hour, we imagine ourselves to be passengers on a Royal Viking ocean liner cruising the Pacific. Lost in our musings with cups of steaming coffee warming our hands, all is quiet as we await the arrival of dawn.
Just as suddenly, I’m back in my present world in the Sierra Foothills of northern California at the edge of a forest filled with tall pines, cedars, and firs. Half an hour before sunrise, I’m in that same Adirondack chair, tucked under a lap blanket against the morning cold. All is still and quiet as I focus on the woods before me.
Deep in thought, I am unaware of the passing of time as light begins to change the scene before me. I am alone… until I am not. The deep blue outline of trees slowly begins to turn a forest green. A faint rustle of life on the forest floor can be heard stirring beneath the quiet. A leaf from a tall oak falls when disturbed by a passing breeze, settles on the ground, and causes a spider to stir. Then an acorn drops, adding to the sounds I begin to record.
Approaching sunrise, two crows on either side of the wide expanse of woods begin a conversation. One caws. The other responds. I cannot resist joining in, and before long three voices can be heard. Caw, Caw, Caw. We are by now a murder of crows charged with waking up the squirrels and birds. Morning is dawning. When sunlight finally reaches the tree tops, a miracle happens. As if lit by a match, the treetops are transformed into flames in the golden hour of dawn.
As I witness dawn’s arrival, I close my eyes. Kit is once again next to me on our deck. It’s a memory I hope to revisit each morning in the dark months ahead. “It is called hope,” I tell the crows as they fly off. And with that, the day begins.
