Watching the Sun Rise and Other Forms of Resistance

Stepping outside my comfort zone as I stretch my resistance muscles

I arrived at Howard Gilman Memorial Park in St. Mary’s, Georgia at 7:17 a.m.—the time significant for a couple reasons. First of all, that I was up, dressed, and in my car after having driven several miles shocked even me. I’m not a morning person. And yet, here I was, out of my comfort zone, waiting for the day to begin.

It’s not that I’m a late sleeper—necessarily. I’m generally awake by 7:00, sometimes 7:30, and occasionally even 6:30. Regardless of what time I wake, though, engaging my brain much before 9 feels like a magic trick. I prefer slow, quiet mornings with few expectations and even fewer demands.

Even so, morning people are more highly regarded than those of us apparent sloths who struggle to face the day. I take pride in the fact that I’m often up at midnight when many early birds are hours into your nightly slumbers. It’s a time I cherish—a secret time of mystery and wonder. It’s the time I love most.

I’ve never understood why my schedule wasn’t praised for its fortitude and perseverance. Instead, early-risers are lauded for “catching the worm,” and for being “up and at ‘em,” and “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” They get all the credit for being self-motivated, ambitious, and disciplined.

While those of us who welcome the night after the bright lights and fast pace of day are called “creatures of the night,” “late-night lurkers,” and “shadow-dwellers.” Whether it’s warranted or not, I often feel judged for being lazy, unmotivated, and irresponsible, just because I don’t pop-out of bed, jump into a hot shower, and down cups of caffeinated beverages to make me appear “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

The second and primary reason that arriving at a quiet, little park along the St. Mary’s River at 7:17 in the morning was significant is because the night before the internet told me that sunrise was 7:18:52 a.m. and that this park was the best place in St. Mary’s to see it. I had my doubts.

You see, because I’m a night-owl, I don’t really know sunrises. At nearly 70 years old, I’ve lived through over 25,000 sunrises, but I doubt I’ve intentionally woken with the express purpose of seeing sunrise on more than a hundred of morning. I know that some of you are shaking your heads and muttering, “You poor thing. Sunrises are the best part of the day!”

I’ll have to trust you on that.

Sunsets are different. I know how sunsets work. I’ve deliberately sought out sunsets over beaches, lakes, rivers, mountains, prairies, even in big cities. I’m awake and attentive when the sun begins to sink in the western sky and the heat of the day begins to drop. When I take the time to give the sunset my attention and the clouds cooperate, I’m treated to an enchanted, mystical time.

The hour before sunset, the golden hour for those of us who like to play with photography, the sky’s bright blue hues turn to gold, amber, and soft orange. Shadows grow longer and, as they do, the world slows down.

The moment the sun touches the horizon, the sky explodes with color—pink, red, orange, and purple. As the sun dips lower and lower, the colors spread further from its core until all that’s visible is a faint glow along the horizon. Stars and planets begin to show themselves, enveloping onlookers in a blanket of sparkling lights.

Sunsets fill me with awe, reminding me how precious the light of day is.

But here I was trying to take in a sunrise. When I arrived at the park, I noticed that the park faced south, and since I’ve been told that the sun typically rises in the east, I couldn’t imagine how this park would give me a good view of it. Besides, I wasn’t sure that I hadn’t missed it already. It seemed pretty light out to me.

The park entrance from my car. See how light it is?

It was at that moment that I admitted to myself that I didn’t know what to expect. Would there be dramatic colors reflected in the morning sky? Would I see the great orange ball rise to greet the day? How would I know when it was over?

As doubts bubbled up, I wondered if I’d be disappointed for leaving the warmth of my bed for no reason. I grabbed my camera and walked down to the dock anyway. Maybe I’d see an early bird catching a worm—or more likely a fish.

I hadn’t walked more than a few yards when I realized that I’d actually timed it perfectly. The sun was rising, and the sky was, in fact, turning colors. I rushed to the dock, and when I reached the end and stood facing east, I pointed my camera downriver and began shooting.

The scattered clouds along the horizon reflected the sun’s fire on the water.

Hooded Mergansers, Great Egrets, and Double-breasted Cormorants swam in the crimson and scarlet waterway. Ring-billed Gulls and an Osprey soared overhead. Countless other birds I couldn’t name swam, hopped, soared, and lunged in the scene unfolding in front of me.

Instead of the quieting of the day and the comfort of the coming night that I feel watching a sunset, I felt invigorated by this scene. I didn’t need coffee to feel a morning buzz. As the sun’s warmth reached out from its downriver perch, I took a deep breath to welcome the day and send my gratitude to the heavens.

I did it. I stepped outside my comfort zone and was rewarded with a sunrise I’ll never forget.

This little Grackle watched my every move

What, I’m sure you’re might be asking, does any of this have to do with resistance? My point is that maybe resistance isn’t always loud. Maybe, sometimes, it’s simply stepping into the unfamiliar and doing what we think we cannot do—even if that means waking up at to see a sunrise at 7:17 a.m.

Later, when I need beauty in my life, when I need to be invigorated without caffeine, I’ll recall the energizing feelings, the air against my skin, the exquisite colors reflected on the water, and the wonder of a January sunrise over the St. Mary’s River. And, just maybe, when times are darkest, I’ll get up early enough to witness the sunrise again.

Resistance requires us to live our best lives. That, in and of itself, is an act of resistance. Anne Lamott, in a recent op-ed in the Washington Post, writes,

I think we need and are taking a good, long rest. Along with half of America, I have been feeling doomed, exhausted and quiet. A few of us, approximately 75 million people, see the future as a desert of harshness. The new land looks inhospitable. But if we stay alert, we’ll notice that the stark desert is dotted with growing things. In the pitiless heat and scarcity, we also see shrubs and conviction.

Staying alert means refusing to pretend everything is OK. When we ignore what’s happening, we’re giving implicit approval to whatever is being thrust on us. Lamott goes on to write:

Lacking obvious flash and vigor might make it seem as if there is no resistance. But it is everywhere you look.

Resistance is most effective when we step outside of our comfort zones, when we get up early or stay up late—when we do things we wouldn’t ordinarily do. Resistance lives in small acts of kindness and courage by everyday people like you and me living our lives.

According to Lamott,

It is in the witness and courage of the Right Rev. Mariann Budde. It is in the bags of groceries we keep taking to food pantries. It looks like generosity, like compassion. It looks like the profound caring for victims of the fires, and providing refuge for immigrants and resisting the idea that they are dangerous or unwanted, and reaching out to queer nieces, siblings and strangers and helping resist the notion that their identities are unworthy, let alone illegal.

Maybe, for you, it’s making a phone call to your elected officials (check out 5 Calls for the easiest way to do that) to voice your opposition to the attacks on diversity, equity, and inclusion policies. Maybe it’s speaking at a school board meeting to challenge book banning. Maybe it’s advocating for a transgender person to receive the medical care they need. Maybe it’s donating to a non-profit that teaches the truth about the history of race and racism in this country (The Living Legacy Project comes to mind). Maybe it’s doing all those things.

So, feel your outrage. And don’t worry if you’re not outraged about everything—if you let some things slide. It’s the only way to survive the next four years. Even if you voted for the current president, the chaos that this administration is creating affects all of us. No one is immune.

Stress causes physical ailments, relationship issues, and psychological instability, among other things. Controlling our stress levels is yet another act of resistance. Nothing is more powerful, more effective, and more infuriating in confronting an angry, ranting person than a calm, rational, and peaceful response. Look to veterans of the Civil Rights Movement if you have any questions about that. And nothing is better for our own health and sanity.

Enjoy a sunrise (or sunset), take a walk in the woods, sit on a rock by the river, watch a Northern Wren sing their morning song, and then take a deep breath and discover your way to resist.

Yours in hope,

Annette

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