Once in a while, I get to envying the night owls. They get to revel in the atmosphere of companionship and laughter, the slow moving hours, the full moon’s hypnotic dance in the garden, the hushed intimacy with the stars. But every time, as much as I’d like to stay, I know I must go, pull myself away.
It’s not just sleep that beckons. It is a date, an appointment, a daily reunion I cannot dare to miss; it is the unravelling of the dark to be enacted, in that very same garden, as the night gives way to dawn. It is the way the morning will lift the cloak with a steady hand, anointing the leaves and the trees and the shadowed corners with the promise of light, blurry edged and liquid, like a lingering dream.
Then the energy will quicken and the unveiling will begin: first one sector of grass, then another. The morning glories will open, a chorus of purple suns. The dandelions will sit up straight, waving their puffs in the air. The birds’ singing will grow strong as they feed on the climbing sun. The pumpkin on the vine will inch one shade closer to orange. The Spanish-flag will strut its many crowns in victory.
Finally, as the light reaches its pinnacle, the butterflies will arrive. And I will sit, and watch them, and marvel once again. They will not know that I´m there, or how happy they make me. And, somehow, that will be part of the wonder. To be the silent witness of this awakening, to have eyes to behold it and a heart to rejoice in it, is -as Emily Dickinson might say- all I know of heaven. More importantly, it’s all I need to know.