Let me explain how this works. It’s not at all complicated. Sometimes when you least expect it, there is a new beginning, a new hope for the future.
Late in life, I have discovered, comes a glow of dawn, a rising of the sun, a burst of daylight illuminating a dark landscape. Fittingly this end to the long night of a horrific year, this break of the day newborn, is a newborn: our youngest granddaughter named Aurora, the Latin word for dawn and the goddess of dawn in Roman mythology.
Although there is no hint of an ethereal mythos in her strident and demanding yowl; she insists on our recognition of her place in the world, and I for one am willing to grant her that renown.
Because she is a tiny miracle, a goddess’s gift that has brought me renewal, healing, restoration, a glimmer of remembrance of my youth. Along with diapers to change and midnight feedings.
I was able to meet her, in person, for the first time this week. We call her Rory. Which is an apt and appropriate nickname because she roars. A lot. With my hearing aids shut off, that is not an issue. And, to me anyway, Aurora’s cry is a song of celebration of this new dawn in my life.
There is another song of that celebration: Richie Haven’s rendition of “Here Comes the Sun” by George Harrison of the Beatles.
I have been singing it. A lot. Every day when I wake in the morning. My aches and pains and anxiety and sense of foreboding all seem to vanish in Aurora’s light.
That’s how it works for me now. It’s not complicated.