Many More Mornings

Inspired by this excerpt from “A Reunion with Wonder” written by my dear friend Andrew:

Someone once told me,

“A wedding is one day; a life is waking up tomorrow.”

I’m forever in a first dance being dipped by the ride of the Divine and I appreciate that.

What’s a wedding worth when you feel you shack up with life every single morning?

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How wonderous it is to wake up in a bed alone. To be a naked woman rolling around slowly in the throes of my own body. To understand so profoundly at this moment in time how absolutely sacred each day is. How the valley of love is in fact formless. I accept my arrival in its depths and feel it, hear it, see it, know it completely.

I get out of bed and laugh to myself as I repeat an acronym that finds its way across my brain like a plane trailing a message in the sky. ABRM. Another Beautiful Revelstoke Morning. The essence of every single day in this magical little town I call home.

I wish I could take credit for its creation but it in fact came from my Aunt Carey and Uncle Ray who have spent the better part of their mornings waking up in the always beautiful ‘sunny and 75’ Florida; naturally referred to, by them, as ABF*M.

I make myself a coffee and stroll out into my garden barefoot. In this morning’s stillness, I observed a breeze with such intensity I thought for sure it would pick me up once it reached me. I counted the seconds before it kissed my cheeks, watching the thousands of leaves blow on the branches of my neighbour’s grandfather maple tree in slow motion.

I feel gratitude swell in my soul in moments like these.

Alive to see another day, alive to dance again.

But this summer, especially, that gratitude keeps me buoyant because this is the first summer that the Queen of summers isn’t around to experience it. I’ve been swallowed almost completely by waves of grief in the past few weeks as I’ve watched the clouds paint each sunset sky and as the morning birds sing their song, thinking that my grandmother should most definitely be alive somewhere, if not here at least sat on the porch at the cottage on the other side of this country waiting for all the breezes to come and kiss her cheeks.

So, I let them kiss mine and I stand at the altar of this union with today and vow to stay alive, to stay curious, to stay dancing.

To say YES to everything; because I can.

Yesterday I said yes to drive two hours outside of this perfect town to attend a Demolition Derby; an event where a fascinating collection of humans choose to smash and destroy cars, trucks and every type of metal and motor until basically it’s all up in flames.

On route, I had a conversation with a friend.

I’ve always loved how cars, in their little incubated worlds, create the perfect container for expansive dialogue. I think the unspoken permission of not needing to look directly at each other somehow brings forward the deepest conversations. And then of course, the winding British Columbia highways have a very subtle way of amplifying the feeling of aliveness, you get lost daydreaming out the window in awe of the mountains and are reminded of your humanness. Suddenly talking about things people usually ignore comes with great ease.

My friend asked,

“Can you imagine never having another morning?”

We arrived at the Derby, and I looked around at all these people celebrating; cheering and screaming for something that logically made no sense to me.

But then I remembered: it’s the simplest things in this life that make us feel so very alive.

I sat in the bleachers, in the dusty field with the natural world echoing around us, eagles hovering, mountains rising; and I watched from afar as I heard myself scream and cheer as metal broke down and broke down further in the most confronting ways in front of my eyes.

And I found myself thinking about that question.

Can you imagine never having another morning?

Not another coffee in the garden. Not another breeze finding your beautiful face. Not another road trip filled with conversation about death that actually makes you feel so alive. Not another sunset, a big laugh, an even bigger cry. No more mistakes or chance encounters.

The truth is none of us know how many mornings we have left.

But this one?

This one is here.

So, I’ll drink my coffee.

I’ll feel the breeze.

I’ll watch the leaves move.

I’ll say yes.

And tomorrow morning, if I’m lucky enough to wake up again, I’ll whisper:

ABRM.

Another Beautiful Revelstoke Morning.

Another chance to begin again.