Writing in the Dawn
UmberDove
- From my sketchbook writings this morning, May 7th 2010 -
When I drove out this morning I couldn't tell if the velvet curtain of night was withdrawing across the sea voluntarily or if the pale fingers of dawn were sweeping it aside. The water rose up and mingled with sky in a seamless sheet of gray, a feat seen only by myself and the shorebirds. I've not known a morning this mild since our arrival, where the trees remained stoic in stillness and the tangles of my mane rested silently upon my shoulders.
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This morning I was seen, truly seen by a seal who gazed into me unblinking, great wells of soul shining and bobbing just above the surface of the sea. I can think of no better place to release than in this place of solitude. I crave peace as hungrily as the gulls who crack open a thousand slick mussels in search of sustenance. I sit upright and sing Om three times. The reverberation hangs in the air, shimmering and floating Westward.
Today marks the first day I've opened my sketchbook since I received That phone call. I've carried it close, hands laced around it's broken spine, holding two full years of history, tracing the softly worn page corners, feeling the heft of paper between the pads of my fingers. But until today I've felt silenced. Mute. As though my soul retreated to nurse it's wounds, leaving my mouth dry and empty. I've missed my life so dearly. I've missed myself. I've missed the flow of light pouring from my sternum, illuminating the images hidden on still blank pages.
There is no back, only forward (the power of your future is in this present moment). My heart is ripe for a revolution. Sing freedom. Sing now. When I watch the birds wheel and dive and soar upward over the ocean surface, I understand that movement in my gut. I could dance to their song if only gravity would release me.
