For the last week, I have had the pleasure of witnessing a sunrise over the sea every morning. I often watch it starting from darkness, the morning sky just beginning to glow red. I see the little lights from the street, from peoples lives shining out through square windows, some awake the whole night and some fast asleep, each forming a little star glimmering in the smoke of dawn. Just before the sun makes his big entrance.
And he rises slowly. A dot, burning orange, rising from the deserts and cities of Northern Africa over the Mediterranean. A single line is formed, orange and blue, a separation of sky and sea. It doesn’t take long before his light drenches the south of France, taking away the shimmering life of the night and bringing in a new day. The sun stands up, not shy about his role. Filtering through the spaces between the clouds, making the calm waves of the sea glitter his reflection. Watching each day come to life reminds me of each time I have witnessed it before.
Sunrises over the green hills of Wicklow, on the red peaks of the worn-out apartments in Berlin, between the mountains of Kotor rising up from the sea. Every sunrise, I believe, means something to me. It’s probably the best time in the day, and the one that I most strive to see. If I wake up and there’s already sunlight flooding into my room, I must admit that I feel a flash of guilt. But luckily every morning I have stayed in my latest place of residence, the windows have remained wide open throughout the night. The lighthouse gazing over me, occasionally waking me from sleep with its tireless blinking.
Every morning, I wake up to the sound of the birds, to the buzz of the traffic below becoming louder as everyone starts their day of work. This morning, some little birds took turns to see me, bouncing on the steel the railing of the balcony. They only stayed for a little while, but I knew that they were saying goodbye. Maybe they’ve been watching me through the branches this whole time, I’d like to know what they think about my life. Maybe they think that it’s strange that I don’t fly, my body is not protected by feathers and instead of wings I have these clumsy, dangling arms that are no use for anything.
We always view life through our own lens, but forget that there are others around who have a different point of view. It’s funny how we can forget that. Just across the water, there are countries of a completely different temperature, nature and culture. But the sun still rose every morning before human beings were around… it’s hard to imagine but I guess that must be true. We are all guests here, no matter where we come from. This last month of struggle, I wonder whether I could have made it easier by choosing peace earlier.
Things that seemed so important then, don’t seem as important now. Every day I spent agonising over something, the sun has risen just the same. The last sixty days… how small a part does it play in my entire life? The space that my body occupies, how small a part does it make up of the entire surface of this earth? The sun rising reminds me that I can always choose peace. That drama is fun, but I can always rest on the comforting softness of routine when my sense of adventure is lost.
Every sunrise reminds me that I am here to explore who I am, and that this can be fun. That I need not tell anyone who they are or what the right way is. Every way is different, and every way is finding itself. That the church bells who ring every morning and every night need not be such a loud stinging sound, hurting my ears. They can be beautiful, reminding me that a new day is beginning and with that a new life has the potential to unfold for me today.
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