There is this song we sing about seeing the dawn of the darkest day. I have always thought that to be the day of the death of the Christ. But there are other dark days; there are other holes of blackness in which people grope and search for illumination.
I awoke of a morning to this bit of light coming through the curtain. We don't live in the land of spectacular sunrises and sunsets. In all truth, the ones I see here pale in comparison to others on the Pacific Coast, on the fields of the American midwest. I have longed for the passionate throbbing of more ferocious vistas, aggressive weather, the terrifying growl of a nature that is more powerful than I. Somehow, the gentle sway of this spellbinding countryside leaves me frustrated at times.
I opened the curtain expecting nothing special, but hoping all the same that for once there would be something truly lovely. I am waiting for a dawn.
Waiting in a fog, waiting in a darkness, waiting for something to come. I hope when it does it is all-consuming, untamed and soothingly fierce.