The Search for Morning

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."

"Only that day dawns to which we are awake."

Like masterfully hand crafted bookends, these phrases serve, in essence, to start and finish Henry David Thoreau's acclaimed Walden.  As we know Thoreau had set out to a quiet place, away from the hubbub and noise of the world, to live – as he called it – deliberately.  In his first chapter Thoreau suggests that human beings are in essence often trapped in a world which represents neither their designs nor their desires: thus the feeling of quiet desperation.  By the end of Walden Thoreau suggests that if we live our lives in a state of wakefulness, we may indeed see the dawn.

Human beings are often in search of morning: the coming of a new day, a fresh perspective, some renewed insight, the relentless belief that things will be better tomorrow.  In the midst of the stresses and uncertainties of our lives we long for the possibility that things will get better.  Our feelings of quiet desperation come in many forms and by many avenues.  Everything from the end of a relationship, difficulties in our work settings, painful challenges with family or friends, and unkindnesses in 1000 different forms can be the cause of that feeling of quiet desperation.  That feeling may come through a gradual and growing awareness, or it may hit like a tidal wave, but when it comes we know it, unequivocally.  Sometimes, as I think Thoreau is suggesting, we can live with this quiet desperation for a very long time.  The weight of it can become almost unbearable.  In those moments we long desperately for morning to come, we beg in the inner reaches of our soul for the dawn to break.

My day generally starts well before sunrise, and whenever possible I try to catch a glimpse – at least a glimpse – of the newly dawning day.  There's something magical about watching the morning light begin ever so gently to fill the sky, then by-and-by the brightness grows to a glow, and finally – at least on a clear morning – the sun begins to peek out from its chamber of rest.  In that moment I know what Henry David Thoreau meant when he said, "only that day dawns to which we are awake."  I suspect, however, that Thoreau meant far more than simply the physical arrival of a new day, although that physical reality certainly gives context and meaning to Thoreau's deeper understanding.

The truth is, one can spend many sleepless nights, wrestling with the realities of quiet desperation, and when the physical morning comes there is still no dawn, no relief.  In reality, we must be mentally, psychologically, and spiritually prepared to see the light.  There is often no way to see the dawn without having wrestled deeply with the quiet desperations in our lives.  The journey of spirit is often wrought with struggle, disappointment, uncertainty, and much faltering.  As the old spiritual teachers remind us, it is almost always after we have experienced great loss, a significant fall, or a deep wound, that we are able – finally beyond the pain – to open our lives to new possibilities.  These new possibilities are almost without fail far richer and more beautiful than we ever could have imagined before we endured our struggles in quiet desperation.  When we have finally come through all the stages of grief, when we have passed through the chilly waters, when we have been tempered and refined by the fire, when we have sustained deep scars from life's battles – then, and only then – might we awaken to the dawning day.  But when that day truly dawns, it is a sunrise possessing a beauty beyond description.

It turns out that it is not flashy, or glitzy, or shiny, or sparkly – rather, it is warm, magnificent, genuine, and it lights a path of simplicity, compassion, and tenderness.  In short, it is a part of our journey toward becoming fully human.