{"id":10381,"date":"2021-04-19T14:45:35","date_gmt":"2021-04-19T21:45:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thewritespot.us\/marlenecullenblog\/?p=10381"},"modified":"2021-04-19T14:46:01","modified_gmt":"2021-04-19T21:46:01","slug":"waking-up-on-a-spring-morning","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thewritespot.us\/marlenecullenblog\/waking-up-on-a-spring-morning\/","title":{"rendered":"Waking Up on a Spring Morning"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

By Deb Fenwick<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

On spring mornings, after a long brittle winter, the truth is everywhere. It begins at dawn. Not that I wake up that early anymore. These days, I sleep until the sun is high in the warm sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I remember thirty years of sunrise drives\u2014drives where a glowing, golden-pink ribbon stretched languidly across Lake Michigan. Like it had all the time in the world. Unhurried. Unlike me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sky had no need to rush to work. To meet deadlines. To prove its worth. From the driver\u2019s seat, I watched the morning clouds, dumbstruck some days, because they seemed to delight in their own essence. Those early morning skies seemed, somehow, to speak to something truer than the life I was living at the time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In those days, I didn\u2019t have time for walks where I watched the earth wake up to its magnificent self. The glory song of forsythia bursting into bloom was muted. Of course, there were hyacinths, tulips, and spring snowdrops emerging\u2014calling my name, beckoning me to take pause. But I pretended not to hear them. Even though their joy was riotously loud, I played deaf. I was preoccupied with the slow-strangle-everyday crush of the mundane.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Learning about the nature of truth and living the dharma is the work of a lifetime. Some say many lifetimes. We can choose a religious faith, a spiritual tradition, a guru, or a master teacher. Take your pick. We can obsess over finding the perfect prayer or the most meaningful mantra. We\u2019re taught that we have to search for truth. We\u2019re taught that it\u2019s elusive and that unless we\u2019re willing to renounce our worldly goods, shave our heads and check into a one-star monastery, we probably haven\u2019t earned it. But the irony is, it\u2019s everywhere once we decide to wake up on a spring morning. There\u2019s an all-access VIP pass. It\u2019s in our pulse. It\u2019s in that redbud branch that\u2019s blasting its neon pink blossoms into the breeze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The truth patiently whispered in my ear for many years. Then, it shouted. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

These days, I sometimes see truth so real that it burns my eyes. Right now, there\u2019s a blaze of life outside my window. Right now, the fragile, translucent petals of lemon yellow daffodils are exploding into spring sunshine. There\u2019s wisteria on the wooden gate. It creeps slowly\u2014just waiting to share its wild purple life force. The dogwood\u2019s unfolding leaves are ever-so-patient in saying yes <\/em>to the warmth of spring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Spring reminds meto say yes to this<\/em> moment. This one. Right here, right now. Can you believe it? There’s a now. And it\u2019s alive with possibility. What will you do with me?<\/em> it asks, almost like a dare.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Look away from your screen for a moment. Poof! That now? <\/em>Gone. It only lives in the past. A new now, blank-slate opportunity is always being born. What good fortune!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So for today, I promise to pay attention to my now\u2014to listen to the truth of the sky. I say that in such a cavalier way, right? Like it\u2019s easy. Like the grocery list and the laundry chores aren\u2019t going to derail me. But when they inevitably do, I\u2019ll remember to trust the now and the beauty of the sunrise. Even if I sleep right through it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Deb Fenwick<\/strong> is a Chicago-born writer who currently lives in Oak Park, Illinois. After spending nearly thirty years working as an arts educator, school program specialist, youth advocate, and public school administrator, she now finds herself with ample time to read books by her heroes and write every story that was patiently waiting to be told. When she\u2019s not traveling with her heartthrob of a husband or dreaming up wildly impractical adventures with her intrepid, college-age daughter, you\u2019ll find her out in the garden getting muddy with two little pups.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

By Deb Fenwick On spring mornings, after a long brittle winter, the truth is everywhere. It begins at dawn. Not that I wake up that early anymore. These days, I sleep until the sun is high in the warm sky. But I remember thirty years of sunrise drives\u2014drives where a glowing, golden-pink ribbon stretched languidly […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"sfsi_plus_gutenberg_text_before_share":"","sfsi_plus_gutenberg_show_text_before_share":"","sfsi_plus_gutenberg_icon_type":"","sfsi_plus_gutenberg_icon_alignemt":"","sfsi_plus_gutenburg_max_per_row":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1474],"tags":[1559,1190],"class_list":["post-10381","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-sparks","tag-deb-fenwick","tag-writing-freely-just-write-writing-prompts-the-write-spot-blog"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p43Dj8-2Hr","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thewritespot.us\/marlenecullenblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10381","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thewritespot.us\/marlenecullenblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thewritespot.us\/marlenecullenblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thewritespot.us\/marlenecullenblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thewritespot.us\/marlenecullenblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=10381"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thewritespot.us\/marlenecullenblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10381\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10382,"href":"https:\/\/thewritespot.us\/marlenecullenblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10381\/revisions\/10382"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thewritespot.us\/marlenecullenblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=10381"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thewritespot.us\/marlenecullenblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=10381"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thewritespot.us\/marlenecullenblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=10381"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}