To the Unexpected Sunrises

This morning, I go out to call the dogs back inside and when I turn around, facing east, I see this:

Instantly, I am grateful that I am not a painter. I do not want to be anymore moved or stunned or awed than I am at this moment. If I saw these colors the way painters do, if I felt them the way artists do, I would shatter the way they shatter.

Not that they are fragile. We all have our weak spots. I stand, just looking at these colors, the bare black branches like stained glass windows. My driveway is a church this morning and today my life is a prayer.

A prayer against injustice. A prayer for everyone to put their guns down. A prayer to pick up pens and books. A prayer for forgiveness. A prayer for letting go and a prayer for holding on. A prayer to know, despite all appearances, what is worth the letting go and what is lost in holding on. A prayer for families, both given and chosen. A prayer for gifts.

These colors are a gift I can bear. Today is a gift I can bear. This will not break me. I listen to the silence in the blues and pinks. The prayers are wordless.

I am not a painter. I’m a writer. The colors won’t undo me. The words will.