There is a nest in a tree in front of my house, high up tucked into the V of a branch arching up to the sky. There are buds on the branches of this tree, which I see outside my bathroom window every day and wonder when they will open into life.
It’s 11 degrees this morning. Perfect cold and icy, with golden sunlight streaming in through the windows, bathing the entire house in a river of gold. It’s as if every single light is on but none are.
There is perfect quiet. The children are off to school. The breakfast dishes are put away. Work has yet to begin. I sit in stillness, alone, in perfect harmony with all. This is a beautiful moment.
Soon, the floodgates will open and I will flow along on a day full to brim of obligations and to-dos. But for now, it is only silence and perfection. I bathe in the golden light, perfectly inspirational, a message on the wings of angels that there is possibility in this day and perfection in its moments.
At 11, I will write with students, teaching them that their voices are worth opening. What do you have to say? Who will listen? If you never speak, no one. If you add your voice to the conversation of the world, someone will perk up their ears and be changed by you forever.
Everywhere in my city, there is innovation happening. At the same time, there are people without a place to call home, without a family to love them, without hope for a future. Innovation alongside deprivation. Entrepreneurial fighting spirit juxtaposed with defeatist wanderings and wonderings.
We live in a dichotomous world that is forever in harmony with itself. Are we in harmony with our souls?
The sunlight travels through the room and in moments, its brilliant golden salvation will have moved on to some other destination, and I will be full into my day. There is no movement from the nest in the tree. It is dormant like the earth, with the promise of awakenings just weeks away.
There is always time and there is never time. On the way to school, I lectured the children on making other people late, waking up in a foul mood heaped on others. It is a choice to be happy, a choice to take life for granted.
Live each day is if it is the only one, I told the children. The car was silent. We sped along on icy pavement, stopping at stop signs, going when traffic cleared. The daughter hoped she would get to school on time. The son wondered whether to give top billing to the bat mitzvah sweatshirt or the bar mitzvah T-shirt.
Life is a series of choices. Do the emotions drive the choices or is it the other way around? The choice to be grateful and content, or the choice to be dissatisfied and grumpy?
My choice on this Monday morning: divine inspiration, perfect quiet, one step in front of the next, one task completed so I can move on to the next. My day is a series of moments. My moments are framable only if I allow them to be.
The golden sunlight angles off the framed tapestry from India. It is rising above the window line and soon will be gone. A moment passes. Life goes on.