We hadn’t even moved into our townhouse, and I’d already lost my bid for the third-story room, the one with the big window facing Carter’s Mountain. It would have been a great little studio, a tucked-away corner for my books and graphite pencils and framed Berry poetry which serves as my credo, until the day I build my writing hut. The words were waiting to spill from that perch; but we have two boys who, I guess, need a place to sleep and a floor on which to toss their clothes. I’m convinced the loss of these few square feet is the reason I’ve yet to write the Great American Novel, but such is life.
I’ve landed down the stairs, just below the cranny that slipped away. It’s half-time office, half-time guest suite. I still have a window, and the window still faces Carter’s. Standing there, watching east, I notice how the fog burrows into the ridge, until the sun arrives to lick the fog away. A few mornings ago, I found myself reading to the mountain. I don’t believe the granite mound was listening, but I’m used to reading while no one’s paying me any attention. The text was one of the day’s Psalms, and I didn’t realize until mid-sentence that I was recounting to the sun and the mountain their own story:
The Mighty One, God, the Lord,
speaks and summons the earth
from the rising of the sun to the place where it sets.
God summons the earth. God coaxes the sun from its slumber. Like Jesus woke Lazarus, like I woke (and woke again) my sons early this morning, like those many times God nudges me from lethargy, weariness or fear – God says, “Rise and shine.”
Whatever your place this day, God summons you, as he summons the earth, as he summons all the fair creatures of this world. Arise. Shine. We’re all waiting to see your splendor.