“Wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving.”~Kahlil Gibran
This morning I am filled with gratitude for what is.
I open my eyes to a benediction of sunshine after several days of rain here on the East Coast.
The sun reaches its way into my apartment and I am reminded again of how grateful I am for my perch atop this lovely old house for there is no place where the light does not reach.
Through the window of my bedroom all I see are tree tops, backed by cloud-tinted sky. I am grateful for their presence and I am even more grateful that even in this urban suburb I live in, I can hear birdsong, backed by a soundtrack of chirping insects. The symphony is made no less sweeter by being periodically muffled by the hum of an approaching and then receding vehicle.
After I wake, I walk down the block for coffee. Eager to fill my mug with a fragrant brew pressed from Colombian beans.
As I walk, I think that no Sunday morning could be more beautiful. There is little traffic and I walk with the sun – arms around each other like new lovers.
In front of the store, I cross paths with a man. He has a well-lived face wreathed in wrinkles. His eyes are of a soft and faded blue, like that of an often washed shirt.
We walk towards each other . I – empty, expectant coffee mug in hand; he – hands in the pockets of the baggy khaki pants his slight body barely seems to inhabit.
We look each other in the eye as we approach. We smile. He blesses me with a greeting ” Good morning darling.” which issues forth in the most delightful Irish brogue!
“Good morning. ” I reply with a grin. “It’s a beautiful day.” he says. I agree.
The exchange is brief and during its course, we each continue our progress. We both turn as we walk, so we can hold each others gaze. It’s as if we both sense the magic of this moment. This brief touching of souls on a sunny Sunday morning. We don’t want it to end.
I turn back the way I have come to look at him fully. “Enjoy the sunshine.” I say.
He laughs and answers “At the age of 80 my darling, I have no choice but to enjoy the sunshine.”
He turns and walks away, whistling softly under his breath, leaving his parting words lodged firmly in my heart.
I say a brief prayer of gratitude for him.
I pray that I don’t have to wait until I am 80 to wear the mantle of perfect gratitude which is draped around his shoulders.
I pray that gratitude is never a choice for me, but a given.
I pray that in every moment of my life I carry with me gratitude for all that is. For the simple. For the sublime. For the joy. The pain. For the sweet, aching joy of being alive.
