We woke to clear skies…and heavy frost. Our after-dinner walk the night before had seen us wandering the deep, unlit blackness of the shore, watching the colours of the stars in the cloudless night. The temperature had dropped dramatically, so the pre-dawn frost was no surprise. Nor was it any surprise at all that two of us were already up and out, long before our companions and the sun were due to rise, walking the coastal path as far as we dared in the time before breakfast.
There is something magical in being abroad to greet the rising of the sun, something that speaks to the soul and feeds it silently as the light slowly floods the sky, painting it in pastels and gold. Behind the sacred mountain to the west, a soft rainbow of colour marked the fleeing edge of night as we walked through the ice-crisp grass. The curve of the receding tide left marks upon virgin sand as free of footprints as before the time of Man, a reminder of the fleeting nature of our presence within Nature.
It was still early. No-one else seemed to be out, not even the gulls whose incessant, eldritch cries tug at the heartstrings all day. We had the world to ourselves, it seemed, witnesses to the daily miracle of dawn. It makes you wonder, every time. But we were not simply observers… we too were part of that moment, feeling the cold upon our fingers and cheeks, aware of the ever-changing light and the ceaseless motion of the sea.
To dance to the rhythm of the sun, to rise with its light and see its passing every day, echoes a greater purpose than our preoccupation with the daily needs of survival. To feel part of such beauty is to remember ourselves within a greater context than that of roles and labels, as part of the earth’s own dance and infinite variation of form.
The world around us teaches of the journey we all take, day to day and year on year. The gift of a quiet Sunday dawn is a perfect moment, undisturbed by noise and the demands of a busy world. To watch the shadows soften as golden light bathes them and watch the movement of the waters is to reflect upon our own voyage of endless change and our inevitable movement from unknowing to understanding.
We walked until the sun crested the rooftops, gilding the morning in a brief burst of glory before turning back. The rocks and the little pools they held were full of ice, yet the sky above the sleeping town was aflame. There is an intimacy in such moments that is a beautiful illusion, that makes you feel as if this is the first dawn the world has ever seen, and yours the first eyes to see it.
Illusion it may be… but this dawn has never happened before and will never happen again…and you are there, part of that moment. I see the sun rise almost every morning through my window. We watch the dawn whenever we can… and it never loses its magic nor do we lose the breathless sense of awe that it inspires. Every time. We headed back to the hotel to meet our companions for breakfast… but we had already broken our fast on beauty.
Beautiful. Wonder abounds. Inspiring.
Thanks, Jennie.
Reblogged this on Stuart France.
The sun is shining today Stuart, though I missed seeing the dawn. Christmas Greetings to you.
Evelyn
And to you, Evelyn…
Reblogged this on evelynralph and commented:
Such dawns are rare in this land.
Evelyn
They happen every day, Evelyn… even if we don’t see them.
Wonderful, Bless you. Today is beautiful and echoes the sentiments. I wish you. Joyful Christmas and Hope for 2017. Thank you.
Evelyn
I seldom do Sue. Too many rooftops, but they are in my mind. Almost as good. Merry, Joyful Christmad to you, and Hope for a better 2017. Bless.
The rooftops eat the urban dawns, don’t they? Yet, they are still there, as you say, in the mind and heart. Have a lovely and blessed Christmas, Evelyn x
Beautiful words and photographs. I don’t have words to describe this.
Neither do I really, Robbie. Sometimes it is enough for you just to be there.
Sue, wishing you a Very Happy Christmas, Peace and Joy. Bless.
Evelyn
And to you Evelyn. Thank you.
Completely beautiful, Sue. The photos and your lovely prose accompanying them. A glorious dawn, once again 🙂
It was a truly beautiful morning, with the frost-whitened grasses and soft colours 🙂
The colours of the sky are so pretty – like candyfloss, as you say. Wish I could have been there to see it for real 🙂
So do I…and especially with Bryn Celli Ddu afterwards! Utterly amazing! But, you’ve seen the light show 🙂
I have! That must have been a ‘wow’ hair-raising, thrilling thing to see 🙂 I’m hoping to come along on another weekend workshop next year though, at least one.
Oh it was… just amazing 🙂 Quite how I am supposed to write about it, I haven’t worked out yet…
That would be wonderful, Helen. I’ll keep you in the loop on when and where we’ll be. We have the April workshop and Portmeirion in June aleady in the calendar 🙂
It looked to be one of those events that would be very tough to put into words. That being said, I can’t wait to read your take on it!
And Portmeirion in June? Hmmm… 😊
🙂 https://stevetanham.wordpress.com/2016/12/14/the-prisoner-of-portmeirion/
Thanks, Sue – now that does look like fun 🙂
It will be something a bit different, I believe 🙂
LOvely words and Photos. Happy Sun-return to you both
A blessed Solstice to you, Paul.
Dawn does ay it all. That hold your breath moment.
Well said and lovely.
(and best wind vane top ever – fabulous)
It’s not a bad weather vane, is it? 🙂
I love the dawn…and see it most days. It makes the day start right.
Always like drawing clear breath and welcoming a new day.
People should drag kids out of bed and make it a habit for them. Eventually they may see it. (As you can see all the primitive basic camping we did as kids was worth something)
Army surplus tent and asleeping bag…yep.
The trouble is that most people live where the dawn hides behind rooftops.
Very cool, I liked how your simplicity gently illuminates your “prose” and descriptive talent in your insight with grace and visual synchronicity.
“Special work” Love it,..
Thank you 🙂