When you wake in the morning there will be sun, and you
will forget. Rod McKuen inspired me many years ago when I read that phrase in a
poem, which I believe I “stole” and paraphrased (since I cannot find the poem
anywhere now, only my own version of it), memories have a way of doing that;
they are not exactly as we remember. I think we sugar-coat and remember things
to be more golden than they were – or opposite to that, maybe worse than we
remember. That is our choice; we are meaning makers, and we must remember our
own truths. Regardless of the validity of that maybe line from Rod McKuen, I
started reading his poetry when I was young, via my mother. Mom loved him, and
at first, I did just because she did, but then he became my savior and poetic
role model in many ways. I loved pouring over the books mom had read and loved;
I still do. It is like consuming comfort food in a way. I loved holding the
books she held which had meaning to her. I was not sure why that was, and I am
still not, but it kept me reading and learning and trying to comprehend life
through her older, wiser eyes. When I came across certain lines and phrases in
books she had underlined, I found myself lost in thought about what she was
thinking when she read that line and why it stood out enough to underline words
or passages. That is part of the thrill of reading older books to me; pre-read,
pre-used, previewed. It is a continual inspiration passed on to me from my
mother; and I suspect, passed on to her from her mother.
There was sun streaming in my window when I woke this
morning. I think that is what triggered those memories of poetry lines in me.
It is rare I wake after the sun has risen. It is not late; just 7:23 am right
now, and I wandered through the house opening blinds, taking morning medicines,
making coffee, feeding the kitties. I started my computer to jog down those
thoughts. It is not late at all, but it is a rare treat to wake after the sun
comes up. In fairness, I did get up earlier, pre-dawn, and washed my face and
brushed my teeth, but it was chilly, and it is Saturday, and I snuggled back
into bed telling myself it’s ok, Kim. It is not the death penalty to sleep a
little longer. When I was a teen, I was not allowed to laze around in bed till
noon, like so many of my friends. It was wasteful to start the day half-gone.
It became a habit, and then after many, many years of leaving my house before 6
am it has ingrained in me the habit of waking early each day, even when I stay
up late (last night, midnight) and it is the weekend, without the need to rise
early. It’s just a quirky oddity of mine. Or maybe it’s not, it’s just part of
who I am.
There were times when my life first blew apart that I would
wake as always, glad to be waking to another day of love and life. I would see
the sun starting to glow around the cracks of the drawn blinds, and momentarily,
the world was right and gorgeous. I would stretch langourously and smile into
the morning, and then in the next instant, life and memory would hit me like a
hammer and my body would become tense, and fear would slide back into me as I
faced the day - the rest of my life - alone. For that glorious split second
upon first waking, it would all be beautiful and glowing like the rising sun, then
it all become shuttered and would rock my world in such an oppressive, sad way.
That happened a lot over many years. That bleakness would fill me that the sun
was rising on me alone in the house built with so much love. How to fill those
days and even longer nights. I worked. I kept busy; I rarely stopped moving –
which is a detriment to me now; habits ingrained over such a long period of
time that I can barely remember how to truly relax and let go. I cried a lot.
But I stepped forward each day because there was no other true choice. Poetry
helped me then. Reading it and writing it; some beautiful still, some, not so great.
Reading Rod McKuen again and again. I couldn’t listen to music for a long time;
the lyrics slayed me for a time - the poetry of them and how they sounded in my
ears and touched my heart. Reading and writing poetry was ok because it was read
in my own head and my own inside voice; not heard in the plaintive sound of
someone else’s voice filled with love and pain and joy. I also couldn’t watch
television or movies for the longest time. I am slightly better at it now, but
not really. Years of habit create other new habits.
Today there is mostly sunshine in my heart each time I
wake, even when there is darkness outside and all around. Each day is hopeful,
even in these turbulent times. This morning’s sun was a pleasantry I did not
consider last night when I fell asleep.
The first night we spent in this house was in early
February. We tacked up blankets to the front windows and left the back wide
open (which opens to the prairie and empty acreage even now, all these years
later), and we were thrilled. The wider-than-normal 10-foot sliding glass door on
the back opens to the porch and faces southeast, and the front windows which are
double, open to the northwest. There is light in this house always, and it is a
bit like living in a fishbowl, especially at night. We had accomplished so much
together, and the new house was a true joy to us both. We were proud of our accomplishments,
and we were happy, although there were shadows already there which neither of
us saw coming. After the sadness we had lived through, though, with losing our
longed-for baby, knowing that no more would come to us; it was still hard to
not look forward into the sunshine of a new chapter of life together. As
always, I woke very early. Steve slept - our mattress was on the floor, the
pieces of the bed piled all around the room. The house was much the same -
still fairly empty as we slowly moved our lives from the old house in the front
of the property to the new house 75 feet behind the old. Friends were coming to
help us load and haul our belongings over. It was shiny, brand new and so filled
with sunshine on that early February morning; sunshine for new beginnings and
sunshine filling the actual day itself. But for that emblazoned moment in time,
it was just me, in a sunshine filled house, wandering, watching the sun create
gorgeous patterns on the walls, the cabinets, the boxes and things piled
around. I made note of it, mentally. It was one of those truly magical, perfect
moments and I never wanted to forget. It was February 6th. An interesting date
to commemorate; that date is ingrained in my soul as a glorious memory from a
previous sunshine filled morning while I was in college; a story for another
day. Each time February 6th rolls around after another trip around the sun, I
cannot help but think of sunshine, hope, promise - the future. Today is March
8th, but the slant of the sun coming in the sliding glass door and the dancing
shadows it creates cannot help but remind me of happiness and hope.
Bad things happen. Good things happen. It is all about the
balance of life. I knew, early in life, that is how it would be. Good and bad. Sunshine
and rain. Happiness, sorrow. All of us experience it at different times in
different ways. One of the biggest lessons I learned from living my life the
best I can over the years is that we must appreciate those little moments of
joy. No one can take away those moments if we believe in them, and although it
is hard to dredge up the sunshine when there’s rain, it does help. This morning
is filled with sunshine, and I am so grateful for the reminder to look forward
to it. Yes, bad things are happening in our world, and in our country. There is
a lack of hope and promise especially here in America – regardless of which
side of the fence you stand on. The only thing I can personally control is
myself. I can choose to shine my own light on each day, in each moment I can. In
the morning when you wake there will be sun, and you will forget. Time passes.
My great-grandmother used to say, honey, in twenty years you will not remember
this moment. Life will have moved on. None of us have crystal balls and can see
or predict the future. We can only live in this moment, then the next, and the
next shining our lights as long and often as we can.
