photo by Collyn Ware

 
It is a serious thing—just to be alive—on this fresh morning—in this broken world.                                                                                                                                            – Mary Oliver, “Invitation” 

Oh, I know that there are some who may roll their eyes when I couple morning with sanctuary. These are the I’ve-never-been-a-morning-person folks. As the sun breaks and its first rays cut through slender openings in their room-darkening curtains, they squint, cover their eyes, and deep-dive under their blankets where they hide like vampires in protective darkness. But if I can bring even one of these folks over from the dark side, I’ll consider my efforts successful.

Consider the final stanzas of the poem "Invitation" by Mary Oliver:

 And if your spirit
 carries within it
  
 the thorn
 that is heavier than lead—
 if it’s all you can do 
 to keep on trudging—
  
 there is still
 somewhere deep within you
 a beast shouting that the earth
 is exactly what it wanted—
  
 each pond with its blazing lilies
 is a prayer heard and answered
 lavishly,
 every morning,
  
 whether or not
 you have ever dared to be happy,
 whether or not
 you have ever dared to pray. 

Oliver is clearly a morning person who embraces each pond with its blazing lilies as a morning prayer, whether or not you have dared to be happy or dared to pray. Morning is a tight tangle of petals that every bud yearns to unfurl. For there, in its center, the good stuff lies, the sacred pocket of possibilities. What will the day bring? What will I choose to do–or not do? If this, then what? These possibilities may be exhilarating and enticing. Or they may be–at times both expected and unexpected–foreign and forbidding. Such is the nature of morning. It is wildly original, lavishly dependable. It arrives, as it must, whether the sun shines or not on this broken world.

For much of my life, I spent the minutes (or hours) before sleep reliving the day, often worrying myself into the kind of heart-pounding anxiety that seriously delayed any real chance of sleep. I tortured myself with what-ifs, and in the quiet dark, I let myself imagine worst-case scenarios, each one a thorn that is heavier than lead. But eventually, blessedly, I’d fall asleep and wake to a morning where mercies and possibilities were new. I never tired of this gift, nor took it for granted, for there is something miraculous about this light that teases you from doubt and dares you to be happy.

In Walden, Henry David Thoreau writes:              

Morning brings back the heroic ages. There was something cosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till forbidden, of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world.

I like this so much: a standing advertisement of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world. Even for us foot soldiers, there can be a genuinely heroic element to the morning. That feeling of proudly brandishing your pitchfork as William Wallace rides up and down the line, urging you forward, reminding you of your cause, and validating your humble effort. That feeling of daring to believe–if even for a moment–that you are the protagonist of an epic story in which you handily overcome every challenge you meet. As you look over your cereal bowl, you can see yourself save the day. The world is vigorous and fertile. And so are you.

I’m painfully aware that by now the eye-rollers have undoubtedly written this post off as rubbish. Just as I’m painfully aware that there are mornings, that there will always be mornings when you can’t hit the snooze button enough, when you desperately want to extend the night, when you long to burrow back into dreams. In his Book of Hours, German poet Ranier Maria Rilke writes that [e]ven when we don’t desire it, God is ripening. (I, 16) Even in our dread and reluctance to face the day, God is ripening our souls. If we let it, morning can be a generous reminder of this ripening. No matter our circumstances, it can nudge us on, one painful moment at a time until we ripen into something less painful, less dreadful.

The photo above that my daughter took while she and her family were camping in McGregor, Iowa testifies to all that is right in our broken world. The ribbon of gold that hugs the horizon, the wash of coral and violet above, the water that reflects the sky at dawn–what a sublime reminder that just to be alive on such a morning is a serious and sacred thing.

So, if you’re not a morning person, you could try one on for size. Grab your beverage of choice and find a good spot for watching the sun rise. And who knows? You might come over from the dark side and join those of us who can’t get enough of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world that each morning brings.