Icarus watched as his father pressed another feather into the wax. The wings, almost complete, lay across Daedalus’ lap as soft and white as the finest wool, a garment worthy of a prince. With tentative fingers, the boy brushed the plumes and marveled. Could such beauty truly be the means of their escape? Would they finally leave this prison of brambles and shadows? Icarus could scarcely remember what it felt like to stand in the full light of day. It was always dark in the labyrinth and they had been trapped here for so long. With his heart pounding, the boy flexed the muscles along his shoulders. Soon his father would lift the wings onto his back. Soon, he would raise his arms and soar toward the heavens. As if reading his son’s thoughts, Daedalus stood. “Pay heed to my words, boy,” he said. “You must not fly too high for the sun will soften the wax and you will drop like a stone into the sea. But you must not fly too low, dear child, or the waves will snatch you out of the air.” “I’ll remember, father,” Icarus replied, but already the sky above glimmered, calling to him to fly up and up and into the light. Inspired by the Greek myth of Icarus and Daedalus.
Each cloudless morning in our farmhouse was like the second coming, as the first soft promise of dawn surrendered to the exultation of full-blown sunlight, touching fire to every window pane and dust mote until the house seemed lit by an inner flame. On one such morning, when I was fifteen or so, I awoke to find my room flooded with light so pure, so golden, my bedroom walls glowed. As I lay in my bed marveling at the light, I realized the world around me was completely still. No kitchen cupboard clatter, no screen door bang, no father soft whistle as he shattered the dewdrops on his way to the barn. Just myself in silence en-clouded in that beautiful light like a Michelangelo cherub. Maybe if I had been wiser, I would have breathed in the life universal suspended in that moment. Maybe I would have tasted paradise and been assimilated into an understanding of all that was and is and shall be, with an appreciation and awareness of my breath and your breath and every breath since time began. But I was, after all, a farmer’s daughter and practicality always took precedence over the profound and I thought (honest to God, this is what I thought) either I’ve woken up much too early or this is the end of the world. Whichever it is, I’m going to need more sleep. And I rolled over and closed my eyes.
It has taken me most of a lifetime to become a morning person, to fall in love with the first rays of sunlight, to appreciate the celebratory stagecraft of dawn as it lifts the night revealing every shape and color, giving the familiar a fresh out of the box appeal. When I was young, the early hours didn’t seem so precious and I much preferred to spend those moments dreaming. But now I ache to move in the nip of early day. And I jealously guard each morning that is my own to map. Could it be that as the number of mornings allotted to me rapidly reduces each becomes dearer? Whatever the reason, I rejoice in my new relationship with Eos. We are BFFs, if not “forever” at least for as long as I can pull these crotchety bones from beneath the bedcovers and slip into her company.
With dawn as my companion, I feel enveloped in the promise of the day. Here is my clean slate and, if I am brave and pure of heart, I can create something beautiful and good out of the next 24 hours. Solar-powered and invincible, I lift my feathery wings ready to defeat gravity and challenge the heavens. No more will I stay trapped in the shadowy prison of yesterday’s disappointments. Today is what matters, as I climb ever higher, forgetting that bravery and good intentions need the balance of wisdom and experience. Drunk on that magnificent light, I soar as the wax softens and the feathers drift away. It takes the cold and salty shock of reality to remind me that even miracles need the raw materials of the world as it is, not as we wish it to be.
On that bright, spring morning many decades ago, I may have missed my chance to forego enrollment in the school of hard knocks—an institution that still reaches out to bruise me from time to time. Perhaps at fifteen, or thereabouts, you can’t expect enlightenment. But at sixty-one, I continue to puzzle over the world and question why the lessons have to come so hard. It is the puzzling that pulls me along. It is the big questions that beckon me out into the morning for long rambles in the dewy air and intimate conversations with the Divine. With time I’ve learned that to make the most of each new day, I have to be the child and the parent—Icarus and Daedalus—holding the exuberance of naïve delight in balance with the prudence of thoughtful understanding. It takes the energy of the one to fuel the capacity of the other and, with luck, I’ll have enough of both.
Being Dorothy 