I was finishing my morning walk, stepping along to brisk tunes on the Ipod when I looked north and saw a light. For just a moment, I thought there might be someone out there and that was oddly comforting. Just for a moment, I wondered if this was the way we humans were supposed to live -- not jammed up in cities, not isolated by technology -- but in small groups, alone but able to see the lights of our neighbors just a short distance away.
On another day, these could have been yard lights in a neighboring farm, on before the rooster crowed, the dogs barked or the barn cats stretched in the musty hayloft, licking their lips at the thought of milk pails clanking. The mornings of my childhood. On another day, they could equally have been a campfire stirred up by a neighboring band of hunters, stretching their limbs as they rose from the cold ground, shivering in skin shrouds and looking for wild white sheep on rocky ledges above. The mornings of prehistory. On this day, they were somewhat of an illusion -- just lights on at our small airport, night and day. There was no one out there.
But I was not alone. The fox that lived in a den under a module in our camp passed unhurried, swerving off the road into the rocky ditch, then out through the tundra. I gave her space, out of respect for her task or feeding three kits in the lower yard, and out of concern that most foxes in the Arctic are rabid.
I watched until her silky brown ruff blended into the mottled hummocks, then lifted my gaze to focus on amber sunlight gently unveiling the bodies of mountains across the valley. The earth’s spinning dance was soft and smooth, and sunlight flowed across the landscape like water seeping down garden rows. As our valley turned to face the day, secret shapes appeared for a moment, then vanished as the light moved on to reveal others. It was mesmerizing.
Albert Camus wrote about mornings:
“On certain mornings, as we turn a corner,
an exquisite dew falls on our heart
and then vanishes.
But the freshness lingers, and this, always,
is what the heart needs.
The earth must have risen in just such a light
the morning the world was born.”
Through the gift of modern electronics, Rufus Wainwright started singing “Hallelujah” in my ears, and the exquisite dew of memory fell on my heart; I tipped back my head and joined in.
“Hallelujah”
Praise, joy, thanksgiving -- a 14th century word that most articulately expresses a 21st century feeling. Isn’t that miracle of its own?
“Hallelujah”
Praise, joy, thanksgiving for the way sunrise flows over mountains.
Praise, joy, thanksgiving, for the comfort of distant lights and knowing we are not alone.
Praise, joy, thanksgiving for the earth that carries us through the darkness and into the light
“Hallelujah”
for secrets revealed each day as into the world we are born.
