Rise and Shine

Morning quiet in early June. It’s cool—-40 degrees-—but a welcome calm weights the air.

“The woods are quiet, dark, and deep ...” I look out on a world of green leaves and hazy, almost-drippy dimness. An overturned bowl of condensed soup covers the sky, thick white. It rained much of the night and will likely rain much of this day too.

A chorus of squirrels sings from a circle of trees by the south deck. This woodland choir pleases me and I’m reminded of my mother’s favorite wake-up call, “Rise and Shine.” She’d sing the words up the stairwell or through one-inch square holes in the living room ceiling, the heat source for the bedroom I shared with my younger sister. It was a lovely, hopeful, just-right promise for a new day, the “shine” trailing upward in an insistent soprano, then sliding downward to completion.

I can still hear my mother’s voice--and feel her intent--three years after her death. Of course, my sister, brother, and I groaned under the weight of such morning glee. We didn’t want to get out of bed to get ready for school and no song, performance, or enticement made the least bit of difference. It was downright aggravating.

Too late I regret my childish disregard and hopefully revisit this joyful refrain. I occasionally sing “Rise and Shine” to Ander and Lucy as I let them out of the barn. The geese seem unimpressed but I sing it anyway. Some days I sing it to myself, a silent voice bouncing around inside my head in search of a fertile spot in which to take root.

Even though today’s air is heavy with the possibility of rain I remind myself to “rise and shine.” I must create my own light today. What better way than to start, as the squirrels and the birds do, with a song?