Every day begins with a sunrise—an indisputable fact on which we can rely when other things in life might not be so predictable.  It can’t be hurried when we are impossibly impatient for its arrival, and it refuses to be delayed when we long for more sleep. Even when obscured by clouds, snow, rain or a windowless environment, it occurs with such precision that we can set our clocks by it. And, as with many predictable, reliable things in our lives, we take it for granted more often than not.

And then there are moments of pure wonder, when assuming anything mundane about dawn just is not possible. Some time ago, I ran across the term “begin morning nautical twilight,” or BMNT, military speak for when the sun is 12 degrees below the eastern horizon and there is just enough light to make out shapes and outlines.  It is the quality of this light on clear mornings that inspires that wonder, when jewel tones inimitable on manmade palettes infuse the horizon, just before the first shadows are cast.

I heard an author say, years ago, that as a young man he made a pact with himself to watch the sun rise every day for a year. He felt it would give him insight as a writer, and discipline. I don’t remember his saying whether or not he followed through or if that act had the desired effect, but I know that on the rare mornings I am able to clear my mind of all else and watch that pinkish-orange ball pull itself up, over, and free of the horizon, I am open to everything that follows and filled with a sense of purpose, gratitude, and optimism.  And that is something I try hard never to take for granted.