On the Pulse of a Morning

Are we on the pulse of a morning? And by that I mean are we not throbbing with a life blood dawning? It is hard and It is new. Something magnificent is happening, if we remain at this threshold. Something fearful is happening, if we fully engage in this movement. In Maya Angelou’s poem of this title delivered at the inauguration of Bill Clinton many felt then as we feel now: holy hope. And while it may not have happened then in chronological deadline time as we would have it, I have to believe that Kairos, God’s time full of opportunity, advanced. And has brought us to this moment in time, another opportunity.

“Lift up your eyes upon/This day breaking for you./Give birth again/To the dream.”

Each dimming of the day we look back over the day and evaluate as the Creator did and each dawning of the day we look forward, step forward, toward the dream. The Kingdom is here and yet to come. 

This divine pulse beats within a dream of the beloved community. And setbacks, crises, tragedies are all part of a greater cardiogram of Life. Joy and hope are also pulsing. “History, despite its wrenching pain/Cannot be unlived,/ but if faced with courage/Need not be lived again.”

Courage is the thing, the character of hope which keeps the dream alive and courage gives voice to new ways of being. I pray we are always on the pulse of a morning. I pray we learn this divine pulse by rock, river and tree. They too have dreams. I invite you to spend some time with a few lines and let your dreams be rekindled.

Imagine I am looking into your eyes and saying Good Morning, with hope.

On The Pulse Of Morning by Maya Angelou

A Rock, A River, A Tree

Hosts to species long since departed,

Marked the mastodon.

The dinosaur, who left dry tokens

Of their sojourn here

On our planet floor,

Any broad alarm of their hastening doom

Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,

Come, you may stand upon my

Back and face your distant destiny,

But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than

The angels, have crouched too long in

The bruising darkness,

Have lain too long

Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling words

Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out to us today, you may stand upon me,

But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,

A River sings a beautiful song,

It says come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,

Delicate and strangely made proud,

Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit

Have left collars of waste upon

My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my riverside,

If you will study war no more. Come,

Clad in peace and I will sing the songs

The Creator gave to me when I and the

Tree and the rock were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your

Brow and when you yet knew you still

Knew nothing.

The River sang and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to

The singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew

The African, the Native American, the Sioux,

The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek

The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,

The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,

The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.

They all hear

The speaking of the Tree.

They hear the first and last of every Tree

Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River.

Plant yourself beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed

On traveller, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name, you

Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you

Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then

Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of

Other seekers--desperate for gain,

Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot ...

You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought

Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare

Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am that Tree planted by the River,

Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree

I am yours--your Passages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need

For this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its wrenching pain,

Cannot be unlived, but if faced

With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon

This day breaking for you.

Give birth again

To the dream.

Women, children, men,

Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most

Private need. Sculpt it into

The image of your most public self.

Lift up your hearts

Each new hour holds new chances

For new beginnings.

Do not be wedded forever

To fear, yoked eternally

To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,

Offering you space to place new steps of change.

Here, on the pulse of this fine day

You may have the courage

To look up and out and upon me, the

Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day

You may have the grace to look up and out

And into your sister's eyes, and into

Your brother's face, your country

And say simply

Very simply

With hope

Good morning.