Five hundred or so years ago, Grandfather would take me out. Each morning we would meet the day. Sometimes the cold wind would almost whisk me away but he would hold my hand and his strength was all I needed. We would walk to a spot, it would change with the season, sometimes change with his song. Once arrived, He would sing his prayer. It was always brand new; it sprang from his heart. This morning with the sun, I heard my heart with his. We sang a song to the morning.

I remember learning to love the rain, the cold, the snow, the sun of the morning. Each was met with delight. “So grateful that you are here today. What mysteries are you reporting?” I still feel the touch of his hand, the sound of his voice, his many teachings, and how he opened me to the songs of Life.

Now, so many lifetimes hence, I still hear the songs, and begin my morning in a similar way albeit usually from inside the house.  And when I don’t do this, I am dead, a lumbering bulk of ignorance. But this morning as the North wind howls and sun sparkles through naked trees, I’ll throw a blanket around me and sing with the morning.