variations on a sunrise

In 2023, I experienced the sudden loss of someone close to me for the first time.

Of course, I've experienced loss before, like so many of us unfortunately have. It's heartbreaking, but it's also a part of being an alive person: we don't live forever, and at times, that means we go on living while others do not. When someone has been very sick, or has lived a long, full life, it's almost as though we have the opportunity to begin the grieving process as we prepare for their death. When their time comes to move on into the next world, it often doesn't come as a complete surprise. But when a young person, who is only just beginning their journey on this plane, is killed suddenly, no one is prepared to lose them. We can be left utterly speechless and adrift. I spent much of my summer this year feeling that way, mired in confusion, shock, and disbelief.

Let me start this story by sharing that I allow myself to have two fears (one rational, one irrational). I think two is a very reasonable number of fears for a person to have, so that's what I've settled on. My singular rational fear is a topic for another time, but, as some of you may know, I am plagued with an irrational case of arachnophobia. Go figure - my irrational fear is one of the most cliché fears around. But there's a point to this story, I promise.

One evening, I came home to my apartment late at night to find a nice, plump spider hanging out on the ceiling, directly above my bed. I truly wanted nothing more than to tuck myself in and go to sleep, but there was no way I'd be able to dream peacefully with that creeper hanging directly above my head. So naturally, I did what any spider-fearing coward whose eyelids were drooping closer to closed every second would do: I opened up my closet, unpacked my 22-degree down-filled backpacking quilt, and tucked myself into bed on my living room sofa. That spider was a problem for future Firefly.

As it turns out, the next morning, I awoke to a surprise I never could have predicted. As I sat up and peeled the nylon quilt covering off my slightly-sweaty skin, I was utterly taken aback by the most brilliant sunrise I had seen in quite some time. As I sat there soaking it in with all my senses, I felt God's presence wash over me like a calm breath. I felt peace. I felt, genuinely, okay.

I couldn't help but think that spider the night before had been placed strategically by the universe, nudging me to sleep on the sofa instead of in bed, leading me to wake up earlier and directly beneath my east-facing windows, all to show me a sunrise that somehow made me feel like I could see through to the other side of the grief tunnel I had been in for months. And I laughed, and I cried, and I scribbled these musings that I hope will mean as much to you as they do to me.

variations on a sunrise | september 9, 2023

Ever since M died, I've been thinking a lot about God. I know M was a religious person and that he wasn't afraid of death because of his beliefs. That brings me some comfort thinking about wherever his spirit may be, now — wherever that is, I know for certain that he is not suffering.

I also have been thinking about my own beliefs and realized I have always believed in God. I have not always felt comfortable or welcomed in organized religious groups, and I don't personally really enjoy that setting, but I think in the hustle and bustle of everyday life, I had forgotten that just because I don't go to church or practice any particular religion doesn't mean I can't believe in a higher power or life force beyond what we, as humans, have been able to measure thus far. It has been comforting and interesting to re-learn that that connection to God is within me and all around me. When I see a sunrise like this morning's, I can't help but feel connected to God. After all, we have specialized receptors in our eyes that can perceive light, color and shape, and because water evaporates from the oceans to form clouds and the earth rotates on its axis for the sun to be able to rise in the east, we wake up each day to the possibility of a new sunrise that is both comfortingly similar to what we have come to expect from a sunrise, yet also infinitely different than any other that ever was or ever will be.

And that becomes a part of me. I fold today's sunrise neatly into myself so I can begin my morning, and it becomes part of my smile that beams a little brighter to a stranger passing on the street than if I hadn't seen that sunrise, and perhaps that person really needed to see a smile right then, and perhaps they carry that smile with them into their own day and the cycle of energy movement continues like a river, ever flowing, confident in its course, dependable, and a source of life. That's happening in billions of lives, trillions of moments, every night, every day, so much so that no one of us will ever be able to know it all — but simply to remember that that cycle of joy is tumbling its way through infinite moments is enough to make me believe in God. God is in science, and in energy and matter that can neither be created nor destroyed, and in mycelial networks, and in "the cloud" which is actually just a lot of computers in Nevada, and in the way animals can sense our emotions even when we can't, and in the ash that dusts the ground after a forest fire, and in the way the ocean has lapped the shore since before any of us were here and will continue to do long after all of us are gone. And I have a brain, which is a gelatinous network of proteins and fats, which are made of molecules that are made of elements that were forged in stars when the universe was born. And somehow, in an incredibly improbable turn of events, those molecules that coalesced to create my brain are capable of functioning in a way that allows me to interpret the light and colors and shapes to produce coherent thoughts such as "yes, that is a beautiful sunrise and God is in it".

And that is something I can carry with me wherever I go. It's nice to be reminded that it's there.

amor y besos,

firefly

P.S.

The spider was gone the next morning!