There’s never been a question, that first light calls to an innate thread within myself— a thread that stitches soul to flesh in the quiet place of shadow that whispers of mortality— that thread set to singing as the horizon sets itself ablaze, bathing landscapes, pregnant clouds, slate rooftops, in pink and gold— a view from distant height revealing reinforced cityscape glass, mirroring a long forgotten vacancy, where now towers scrape the ignited sky— even the dimmest of mornings, shrouded in storm or cloaked in fog, sets the world in a slow carousel of shifting shadows backlit by an ethereal glow, illustrating tales of unimaginable folklore, more often than not, lost to eyes blinded by a view of artificial blue light.

It was not surprising that my own children would hear the call of aurora— that they’d be found on countless mornings, small hands to glass, fingers seeking for what lies beyond the pane— standing outside, brains still dream saturated, unafraid of what could still be prowling the hedge, eyes to the horizon— enrapt by nature’s stained glass view through bare winter boughs or the silken curtain of summer green leaves— watching as dawning gold evaporates into hues of day.

I’m always head-full of Frost’s loaded words: “Nature’s first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold…” the most loaded for a parent landing heavy on the heart: “…nothing gold can stay.” It’s nearly impossible, truly unavoidable, not to notice how time is tumbling and gaining speed, taking with it the look of infancy, toddlerhood, and being a kid— and how I’m glimpsing more and more angles of my three growing up— and I want for time to slow its progression— but I know the folly of such a wish, the wasted efforts that equate to wasted time— no mortal has outsmarted time— but if you adjust your thinking, it’s no longer a game of strategy, of bettering the opponent, but rather a practice of our own pacing— that in those moments we want to stop still, capture, and keep— we should stop ourselves, shutting down all outside influences and destructive thoughts that steal us from that very moment we want to hold onto, and return to our senses to create a mental snapshot to carry with us— like that December morning, when the house was chilled, the Christmas tree a familiarly comfortable scent, speckled corvid caws vibrating beyond the window, my three standing in Jack’s bedroom, calling to me, “Mom! It’s all gold!” The entire bedroom momentarily awash in Dawn’s golden light— their faces lit in awe, their hands splayed on the gilded wall, their eyes mesmerized and trailing motes of dust in the glow, my barely audible plea, “How will you stay gold?”…in a world of unending sunrises marking the continuous passing of time, how will they stay gold…and the day-long searching giving way to a most simple realization, as twilight enveloped the land in teal and turquoise…never steal from them the desire to reach for and seek the source of what keeps them in awe— never stop them from taking it in, never tell them it’s like any other sunrise, never fill their heads with monotony, even if time isn’t on your side— allow them to wander within their curiosity and thoughts, to look towards insight of the enigma, and encourage them with the adventure of what the dawning of a new day will bestow— we keep them gold by holding onto or rediscovering what makes us gold, and in turn, we find a new define for the inevitability of time—

E. A. O'Connell. December 2019