The Other Side Of Morning

Every morning is a gift.  We look forward to each one. We all look forward to many mornings to come regardless of how many we've had already because that is how a sustained and long life always begins; and all the  mornings we get are by themselves the greatest gift that we ought to unbox every day. It does not matter what is in each box for as long as we get to open it. The greatest wonder of it all is that we get to do with each gift as we please.

The beauty of every morning is the sunrise that ushers it in - unopposed and unrelenting from behind the clouds, through thunderstorms and heavy raindrops, even through the din of howling winds, even that of a baby crying or the piercing intrusion of an alarm clock - because each is a gift. However, there is a catch.  Isn't there always though? 

Every morning has a mid-day, like the half time of a well contested game, complete with a two-minute warning before lunch. Then there is the frantic scramble to make the most of the next two quarters, then another two-minute warning by way of a gentle sunset.  And the day is over. How well we did is how well we played the entire four quarters. How well it ends is what the other side of morning is all about. But even if we didn't play all four quarters, waking up in the morning is good enough, for the alternative is not to wake up at all. But we'll not go there; at least, not just yet.  That is because there is so much on the other side of morning.

When we got married my wife had this thing about making the bed right away, before she steps out of the bedroom. Actually, she is pretty adamant about making sure the bed is made - bed sheets stretched out tight, blankets folded or laid flat, pillows fluffed.  I, at first, though not overly annoyed by the strict ritual, found it a bit obsessively compulsive.  But it seemed a little much that even when we traveled, she did the same thing with the hotel bed.  At the very least, if we are pressed for time, the bed cover must be laid back properly before we step out.  My wife has to start every morning that way, her first task for the day, which she prefers to do as best she can if she were to expect all subsequent tasks to  go the same way.  That is her way of opening the daily gift of morning.

These days, after the dreaded diagnosis of Parkinson, I took up the role because, as can be expected, she struggled with the routine; though she tried. Should I have changed the ritual? No, I became a convert, instead. That's when I realized my wife had the right idea all along  about how to open the box.  If each morning is a gift, she knew to open it the right way, everyday. I will have to agree.

Many decades ago it was she who applied for immigration to this country, to which I had very lukewarm interest. Today, I'm glad she saw what mornings we were going to have at a place, though foreign and far away, where she knew that over 15,700 mornings later we will be at a place we and our two sons and our five grandchildren can live comfortably and securely - where every morning is the box to be opened first.  My wife knew it all along.  I may have learned it late but I'm glad I now know how. The least I can do today is to stick with the routine that started it all since 18,625 mornings ago when we first got married.

So it is that each of us must look forward to every morning that comes our way. Without us having to do anything, it comes with the regularity of a universal cadence. Yet, we are not without a choice.  We can get up early, late or begrudgingly, but it keeps coming anyway. If that is not something we value we must at least know that it is always there, yet it requires little obligation on our part to open it one particular way or another. It will keep coming anyway. Until the day we could no longer have awareness of its coming we must always consider it a gift.  There is no asking price for it. Unused or not, however, we lose it at every sunset.

Let us not forget that the other side of morning is how much or how little we do with it. How we begin to savor the day is always about how we begin the other side of morning. Though we have all day, we know it will soon become sunset.