Magical Misty Morning

A light mist blanketed the old fishing harbor in the first light of morning. Sleepily I slipped out of bed, threw on my favorite frayed cut-offs, t-shirt and hoodie. It was a cool, damp morning, and for some a morning more suited for sleeping in than sailing out into the bay.

Careful not to wake my sister with whom I shared a room, I quietly pulled the heavy sail bag out of the closet, tossed a water bottle and apple in my backpack, tip-toed through the kitchen, still reeking of the onions and garlic from last night's dinner, and out the side door into the morning air.

Outside was alive, singing. It was like entering another world completely wide awake that had already been busy preparing for the new day. It was already buzzing, enraptured with itself when I entered from the sleeping household. The sweet morning air embraced me, waking me even more fully. It was vibrantly fresh, pulsing with just the thrill to be another day.

This morning, in particular, seemed to hold an invitation to breathe more deeply, with more purpose merging with the life pulsing around me as I made my way down the sandy path, carved into the high grass leading down to the harbor. I saw the graceful heron perched on the old rotted dock sticking its head out of the murky canal. I held the morning lovingly, as a returning lover embraces his beloved after being away awhile.

I felt sorry for the rest of my sleeping family, dreaming away when all this crazy life was begging them to come away from their warm beds, and feel the cool breath on their faces, the wet sand below their feet, the symphonic bird song. Life was holding a concert. How could they miss all this? 

My mind flashed back to a line gasped by St. Thomas More while imprisoned in the tower of London, awaiting his execution for simply speaking his conscience to the mentally ill King of England.

"One does not get to heaven on a feather bed," he said to his daughter, his dearest disciple.

"What a strange thought to have this morning," I reflected.  The comfortable life cannot compare to the beautiful, radiant, vibrant life Heaven has spread out before and all around us, like a spiritual banquet. If only we would just get out of our warm little beds to experience it.

I could see up ahead the mist lifting.  There were only a couple veteran sailors out trimming their sails for the race later that morning.  They, too, were immersed in the sweet morning, whispering to them.  We all knew its sacred liturgy. Awed, we moved gently in this rapture, in a kind of tai chi.  Aware, feeling every muscle in our bodies, the numbing toes from going barefooted down the cool path, observing every drop from the mist cresting on the bow of our boats.  

In an hour the mist will have lifted, the harbor would be boistrous, laughter would replace that breath of God that had sung all around us.  I, too, would forget, just for a few hours, as I sailed into the wind, feeling its passionate breath against my sunburned face.  Tossed against the rising waves on the lake, and then dropped carelessly into its wake, I felt a rush. Life was so rich, so full, and I was so grateful to have witnessed so much of what she had to teach me.  I was grateful that my feet were cold, my sides ached from holding down the sail from the stiff breeze which later that morning would topsize my small sail boat.  But, then, with the help of others, I would rise up again and again, until the race was over. The joy was in all of it.  All of it.  It was magical.  All of it.  How sad that my family slept through it.  They missed it.  And, it was too wonderful to miss.  I was grateful for all of it.