My fingers tingle after this morning’s walk in the 31-degree temperature. It’s the first day of spring, and my anticipation of warmer weather did not meet the reality. Ivy and I set off toward the park this morning. I wanted to see the sunrise.
We started through the neighborhood toward River Road. The robins were busy and boisterous. We entered the park detouring into the assisted living facility where I hope Ivy and I will visit one day. The grounds are meticulously kept; the fountain in the retention pond greets us in an array of droplets. There were no ducks there today.
At the end of the walkway, we turn and I give Ivy a treat. We leave the grounds of the facility, past the signs that thank the essential workers for their heroism, and make a left into the park. It is more gritty than the facility. Sticks litter the ground and I anticipate returning to collect them for a fire pit. Trash from weekend soccer games litter the area. Cigarette butts from the heroes are strewn at the grass’s edge.
We are not deterred, and after reminders to Ivy that we don’t eat that, we proceed toward the river. We do not reach the river. There is an interstate highway that separates us, but we still take in its majesty. We observe the red gathering at the water’s edge. There is still time.
I allow Ivy to run freely inside the fenced baseball field. I call her back occasionally and give her a treat. The last time she returns, I attach the leash and we leave the field. It’s almost time for the sunrise.
We walk to the hill, the river to our backs. I keep turning around in order not to miss the orb seemingly rise from the water. It never fails. I always seem to miss that moment. There it was, already partially risen. Still magnificent. I am not disappointed.
Ivy and I position ourselves so that we are looking directly east, directly into the magnificence of the promise that the sun will rise each morning. I am aware of the raucous cries of robins; of the banging of the hungry woodpeckers; of what stands between me and the sun at that moment: the bare branches of trees; the space between two apartment buildings; the cyclone fence of the baseball field. But, none of it deters the glory of the sunrise.
I am reminded of the lens through which I see the world, of the lens through which we all see it. Someone on the other side of the river saw that same sunrise in a different way, and yet it was still the same sunrise.
Upon returning home, I noticed a single impatien popping its head through the soil of last year’s pot on my front stoop. It is still a living promise, though it shares the space with dried-out, (dead, perhaps) plants. It is not always the setting that declares the beauty. Or, perhaps it is.