The Dawn of a New Day

This morning I awoke naturally as the sun began to rise just before 7:00 am. It still wasn’t over the mountains at 7:30 as I brought my cup of coffee and journal outside on the porch to meditate and begin my day. I enjoyed watching the clouds slowly change color from purple and red to orange and yellow while I listened to the birds, the cows, some chickens and I believe one donkey braying in the distance. The farm to the west sounds closer than it was on my drive to the store yesterday. Sounds can be so deceptive when the world is mostly quiet and the air is clear. 

A wren alighted on the porch near me moments ago. She fluttered up and down as she caught and ate her fill of the bugs that had landed on the porch as they looked for a spot to hibernate or die quietly. The wren looked at me sideways. She considered me sitting there on the recliner and decided a tasty morsel was more important than avoiding me. Or, perhaps she thought I was harmless? I felt honored to be inches away as she enjoyed her breakfast. The fall colors are nearly at their peak in the valley below that leads to the river. It is so quiet here that I can distinguish the rush of some rapids in the distance and the sound of maple leaves falling from the tree in front of me. I don’t think I have ever heard leaves falling in my suburban yard. It makes me wonder how many other subtle sounds and sensations I miss in my daily life? Here comes the fiery ball of the sun, finally popping fully above the tree line. It looks like it will be another gorgeous, sunny fall day under a bright blue sky.

This morning I felt as if I was awakening from a fog with the sunrise. My head cold started to clear and I was able to add back the yoga asana I enjoy so much after my meditation and journaling session, so long as I kept the inversions to a minimum. My fog of grief is ever present, but after 14 weeks, it has settled into a new place in my being. Coming on this retreat with my writing friends has given me a bit of breathing space and the support I need to finally pick up my pen again after a very dark time. Alex’s death will be something I learn to live with, like people learn to live with cancer or the loss of a limb. A year ago, before Alex’s relapse, before his father’s death, before Andrew graduated from college, I started to write a book with the working title of Resilience. I planned to use some of the ideas from this blog and my personal practices to create a book full of tools and tips for self care. I created an outline, an introduction and the skeleton of 12 chapters. The great irony of this timing is not lost on me. However, as I try to rise above this horrible pain and learn to function in the world without my 26 year old son, writing about resilience has taken on new meaning. I am the person who most needs to review what has worked for me in the past when I have faced obstacles. Mindfully watching the sunrise this morning, helped me to connect with the beauty that still exists in a world without my beloved son. It is the dawn of a new day: a new phase of my life.