It began like everything does: in the quiet of the dark. 

Lying there, I imagined the color, the light, the moment it would appear. I could see it crowning the horizon, the pink morning light rising from the ocean, the stage set to begin. I wondered if the idea of it might be enough for now. The room was cold and dark. I could always try again tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe I would feel more rested. Maybe the sky would be clearer.

But then, having measured the certainty of that today against unpromised tomorrows, I crawled from under quilted sleep, touched my feet to the floor, shuffled with outstretched arms, navigated the door, and descended – hand clutching the rail. 

Coffee black and mugged, I stood before the kitchen window . . . looking through my reflection. The dark of night haunts from behind. It chases us from the room to the bed and under the covers. It looms at the door to the lighted hallway. It lurks in the places we cannot see: under the bed, behind the closet door, and just outside the window. The dark of morning ushers forward until mirrored windows break with morning light – replacing our reflection with a view of the world.  It clears the way for us – feeding imagination with possibility.

Outside, the sky held stars and the air was still. I broke the quiet with the turning of the ignition. My headlights pierced the dark.

Alone on the road – window open and heater blowing – I straddled the double yellow lines. Driving between day and night, my mind woke, the road looked unfamiliar. In between is where hope takes root, where the possible matures, and the imagination gives shape to dreams. 

I parked against the dunes, turned the ignition quiet and listened for the waves. The door closed behind me – keys dangling from the ignition – my feet broke through the cold morning sand to feel the warm of summer lingering. Walking along the dunes, I found a spot and tucked in from the wind to wait. 

I saw it break the surface. The yellow crown pushing pink sky up into black night – dissolving stars. Then came the blinding light that makes you look away. I raised my hand to shield my eyes so I could see the sky turn to day. The full sun hidden behind the palm of my hand.

The day jolted into full motion. I tried to be heavy, to resist the pull to action. I refused the first step that could distort hope into reality: leave risks unrewarded, calls not received, and the only answer offered – no reply.

I held fast to hope. I let the feeling sink deep enough to intertwine with work and imagination, making a thing that could not be broken – a line strong enough to hold any dream steady against the changing sky. 

I did not travel through the dark that morning to see the sun rise. I traveled for the shuffle across the room, the moment standing before myself in the kitchen window, the smell of the coffee, the feel of the empty road, the sound of the waves, the touch of the warm sand, and the comfort of the dunes. I traveled for everything that happened in between waking and the rising of the sun. 

It began like everything does: by refusing to wait.