Sequestered, as I am at this time of year, under a Sherpa blanket and with a sleeping Yorkie on my lap here in the den with its south-facing window, I haven’t seen the sun rise for months. No early morning colours declaring God’s glory, no hills and mountains praising, just a quiet, slow start to the day where light ever so gradually overtakes the dark.
I haven’t seen the sunrise, but I know it’s there. I know it happens. Tucked away in the recesses of my winter mind are memories of other sunrises. Mornings when I sat with my toes in the sand sipping a latte on the beach in the Mayan Riviera, or watched the sky change from brilliant pink to shades of soft blue while standing barefoot in my backyard, and those times when dawn seemed to arrive suddenly and without much fanfare at all.
Whether hidden behind clouds, or arriving with brilliant and colourful fanfare, the comfort of the sunrise is that it happens. Every. Single. Day. It provides an anchor. Something to rely on. Even in the midst of upside down times such as the ones we are living through.
In this, the sunrise is a picture of the Divine.