Clear skies don't make dramatic sunrises
When my son died suddenly and unexpectedly four years ago, my entire world crashed down around me. There are literally no words to describe the pain and emptiness.
One of the many grief-induced realities I faced for a long, long time after his passing was the near impossibility of deep, restorative sleep. Each night, I tossed and turned for hours.
When (and if) I finally fell asleep I routinely woke around 3 a.m. and that was it for the night.
During this same period of intense grief, all I saw was darkness. Colors faded into a bleak landscape. Something inside me, though, knew that forcing myself to search for beauty again would be a life-sustaining quest. Following that inner voice, I went out and bought myself a camera. I figured it would motivate me to look for beauty and capture it. Because I live at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, I had access to a nearly endless supply of natural beauty, if I could just see it.
It turned out that what I sought was staring me in the face; more accurately, it was looking down at me from above. I’m not using that as a spiritual metaphor; I mean it literally. Remember, I wasn’t sleeping at that time and my days began before the sun came up. I started taking my camera to a small lake down the street to photograph sunrises. Soon, I began to branch out to other east-facing sites with good views of daybreak. In fact, sunrise became my favorite time of day. It’s quiet, the air crisp, and the world not quite awake. In the silence, I felt a connection to my son. It was just me, him, and nature’s daily light show.
The more sunrises I saw, the more accurately I could predict whether that morning’s show would make for dramatic photos. Some days, I found, start with a wild victory cry splashed across the sky, while others don’t so much break as they unfold; a slow, subtle awakening as night gives way to day. Those mornings offer their own beauty and I photographed many of them. My eye, however, was drawn to the more exuberant displays. I think they offered the vibrant beauty my dark soul needed to see.
And in those early hours day after day, I learned something important: clear skies don’t make for brilliant sunrises. It’s the clouds that do that. The sun needs the clouds to scatter, bend, and intensify it’s light. When they do that, the clouds glow and sparkle and create breathtaking technicolor displays. I learned to welcome the clouds; even to be disappointed when the morning sky was clear and featureless.
That’s when it dawned on me (pun intended). Life works the same way. We all think we want clear skies. We hope for them, and we curse the storm clouds when they inevitably appear on the horizon. The hard-to-swallow reality, though, is that it’s those clouds that scatter and bend and intensify our life’s trajectory and bring out the beauty in us. If we have the courage and support, we can allow ourselves to be bent and let the full spectrum of our colors show. Our lives can become more impactful and more compassionate than they may have been had the skies remained clear.
Don’t get me wrong. I still wail at the sky and curse the clouds. In a nanosecond, I would trade all the drama caused by all the clouds in all the sunrises for more time with my son. I’d break my camera, gouge my eyes out, and pull the blackout curtains if it would bring him back. It won’t. I can’t change that. The only thing left for me is to choose how I respond to the blackest cloud I’ve ever known. I choose to look for beauty – in the world, in others, and in myself.
What will you chose when the clouds come? Can you find a way to face east and see what colors sunrise brings?
About the author
Dave Wyner is a Licensed Professional Counselor, National Certified Counselor, Certified Clinical Trauma Professional, and Certified Grief Counseling Specialist with a practice in Louisville, Colorado called A Path Forward Counseling. He’s passionate about helping people rebuild their lives and thrive again after painful losses or traumatic experiences. His abiding desire is to help people affected by trauma and grief tap into their own strength, courage, and resilience in order to find meaning and purpose in their lives. In addition to traditional office-based counseling, he also offers equine-assisted psychotherapy with a herd of six horses at a small, private ranch. In his spare time, Dave enjoys hiking the beautiful Front Range with his wife and dog, nature photography, and catering to the two cats who graciously allow him to live in their house.