Morning Song

It puts a smile on my face. The morning sunlight softly illuminates the rising red hill, shines through the clouds in a soft iron hue, beams through the window and warmly caresses my face--with it a brisk, sharp breeze. Birds liberatingly rise high into the sky, inquiring of me why I am not joining them, then swoop low across the landscape, drawing my attention across the unusually charming display of monotonous buildings before me. From them steam calmly flows into the air, dissipating as promptly as it appears, unconscious of its activity, simply obeying the laws it’s unknowingly bound to. Snow caps the peaks deep in the horizon, a sharp contrast to the fire-cast walls before me, speckled with the pine-green of triumphant life. Each breeze carries the whispers of the mountaintop, gently requesting my presence, beckoning me through winding canyons and woods, besides fresh running water and free wildlife. Yet it understands… not today. That’s ok, it reassures me. It allows me to redirect my attention to the delightful photo upon the wall, ensuring I have not forgotten my two greatest joys. One of them is laying beside me, pleasantly sprawled out across the carpet, eye closed in the morning bliss. What a simple life, I think to myself. What a complete life--unburdened by the chaos and hassle of survival, finding joy in each new, exciting moment. To him, every moment is a wonderful new experience to be had, his life an ever-changing horizon, despite the modest routine he knows. One could learn.

One could wish. But we are not so much alike, I concede. As much as I wish it could be, that simplicity is simply not permitted by the human condition. My attention redirects to the distant yet invasive sounds of the highway. Thousands of men and women dispatching on yet another day in the city, perhaps to do precisely what they did yesterday and the day before. Just mundane hum-drum, I blindly believe. But maybe it’s not all that bad, I allow. Maybe, I formulate, the city is not so much unlike the forest, the road not so much unlike the stream, the high-rise not so much unlike the peak. One can begin to see the patterns in this silly game of life, whether it be the natural processes millions of years past or the seemingly un-natural processes of the present. Yet it is all the same. How am I, a young man finding his place in the modern world, any different from a leaflet growing into its place on a tree in the wilderness? I will rise, and I will fall, as will my parents and the generations before them, and eventually the entirety of our collective human experience will be a mere smudge on the Earth within this cosmic orchestra, not unlike other natural happenings such as those that have left majestic canyons.

My heart continues to long for the wild--for the sweet scent of pine after a healthy rainfall, for the soothing song of a swiftly running creek, for the tickle of wild grass upon my cheek. My feet grow anxious with anticipation for the next time they will see a trail, for the next time they will get to pack down the loose dirt on the mountainside or wedge themselves into gaps within a cliff face. My eyes yearn for the sweeping views of impressive mountain ranges and the intimate, serene places they shelter. Yet, I once again look into the heart of town, now realizing its profound reflection into the wild cravings of my spirit. Can I not find the serenity of an aspen grove in a cozy room surrounded by those I love? Can the sweet sounds of joy and laughter not provide me the same pleasure as those of a wild river? Can the conquering of academics and careers not satisfy me as much as does bounding myself atop a prodigious mountain peak? Can the pressing warmth of my lover not delight me as does the friendly sun amidst a field of wildflowers?

I think so. Perhaps the city is not so much unlike the forest.