Seeing
the sunlight again each morning, noticing that night has left the land somehow
newer and fresher than before, I sometimes have the feeling of being alive all
over again. I guess sleep is, in a way, somewhat like a short-lived dying out
of life, a sort of simulated death, and so waking each morning might be thought
of as a rebirth. With each new dawn comes a start-over, a new beginning, a
resurrection of ourselves, you might say. And actually, almost everything
starts over in the morning. I’m no scientist, but I’ll bet something clean and
clear begins each day in the natural world – some new kinds of light, the
somehow youthful look of even old snow, the crisp onsets of breezes that seem
surprisingly new. Nothing is old in the morning. The earth, the universe
itself, is a refurbished wonder when I awake, if I’m smart enough to see
it.
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