As the sun was barely waking, beyond the horizon, as the last of the distant eyes kept watch upon the anticipated dawn, those left behind, falling into the shroud of a thin darkness awakening to the display of the twinkling heavens, remained under the reflective watch of their keeper in a manner reminding them of the center of all things. And, perhaps because of the dew stubbornly clinging to its companion or because of the lazy feel of the moment or because of the desperate plea of the stars to prolong the marvel, the warm light crept gently—crescendoing beautifully with every passing breath. It seemed the flowers were the first awake in the light, boldly stretching to grasp what it could, while the desert trees, never hurried to rush through their days, slowly blinked, and one could imagine, offering a half-smile to an old friend.
The light crept slowly and bent intently around each barrier. With each passing glance, every turn of the hand, each stretching of rosy fingers, the light brought glorious saturation to the painted deserts, burdening the dry world with hues of velvet scarlet, copper, and gold. The sleeping world came to life, shaking from its presence a slender veil, welcoming the new, and, in the subtle distance, from a tragically inhospitable environment, filled with fiery fury, Aphrodite, herself, widened her gaze, admiring yet again the rebirth of a forgotten ancient friend; her regard could only be observed as a vague whisper, a glimmer, a blink, but it could be observed nonetheless. There is no wondering, astute student and mere observer alike, to the phenomenological extent of which, to those who came before us, each element of the coming day presented as a deity deserving of honor and sacrifice. And, yet, fitting to its ageless repetition, there is nothing more assured than the coming dawn, despite the routine of the occasion.
A few lingering stars, flickering sympathy from their assigned posts, murmured sighs of heartache, as though viewing the undeserved redundancy of unrelenting crisis burdening the Despairing in a tragic opera whose director cruelly rehashed as though rehearsing to perfection scenes of demise and anguish; they had seen this act before and longed for the curtain to draw and the stage reset. For in such despairing eyes was seen the dull and dead gaze speaking now only of one lost in a desert searching for that which cannot be found.
The most evident feature of this desperate ensemble was a cloud of shame festering throughout the bones. Regrets were now only challenged by willful pride reforming its efforts in a last stand position. Their countenance spoke of a fatigue that seldom comes without age; they seemed hell-bent to destroy all that was given, to mutilate the would be flawless, to remain barely cognizant of the realities. For the longer one could deny the realities, the longer one could delay the inevitable, the longer one could turn from reflections, the longer one could hide.
The practiced excuses were hallow, fleeting, and beginning to shatter.
There, apparent from above, among the hurting and despairing, with the fragrant offering of flowers for all, bathing in the newness of the dawn, she was, existing in the blooming sanctuary, in a kaleidoscopic cornucopia of dancing light: tulips, carnations, asters, hydrangeas, the sweet smell of roses, the calming air of lavender, lilies, orchids, and budding chrysanthemum. In this haven, the caressing reach of the sunrise seemed to focus its watch into a lover’s whisper bidding with a morning’s kiss the fervent longing of a new embrace. Elpis hallowed the floral temple.
This, as we all understand, was not the name given to her at birth, but rather the best attempt of her newly found people to pronounce what should have been spoken in a foreign, heavenly dialect; accurate enunciation and voicing were never of any consequence; she often welcomed the bold attempts of the tongue by the usually faint-hearted.
She was quietly seated, the golden dawn stretching around her, warming her old bones, and lighting her smile. She sat with a subtle smile, eyes closed, and palms lifted up as if to receive a gift. She was smiling and embracing the light as an old love returned to her, soaking in each golden beam. Her skin held deep wrinkles and parched pains revealing wearied age; the deeper one glanced into her beaming reflection, the more one was flooded with histories hoped to be forgotten. But her age was truly displayed through something deeper and alluring. Written on her face was a wariness that held more than she ever let on; she bore all the signs of a life forced to withstand the fury of the elements, and to have done so with a wounded warrior’s courage. She was a gentle soul—this is true—but, despite the reality of her height, she stood as tall as every moment required; the secret of such posture was within her eyes: within them was a ferocious sparkle of deep poetry. Although inspiration was her countenance and love her being, she was by no means unscathed. She felt, cared, and loved from a deep well, that, despite the endless flow of living waters, required a length of rope few bothered to obtain. She held tight to her secrets, with a quiet smile and a gentle humming tune; even the lyrics of her beloved hummed hymn, the longing of jealous Muses, lay locked in the depths of her heart. What is known is that she was far from home yet still always where she belonged. Wherever she was, there was her place. Whomever she met, there were her people.
Force was not her way, but, between the allure of her eyes and the sweetness of her voice, she drew you in close—closer with every phrase. No matter the path Fate forged before her, with her followed the dawn of every heart, the silent sense of renewal that must be what some call peace.
All live under the creeping temptation of the Sirens’ luring, to live as a mendicant begging at the footstool of the Fates, grasping for breath, to live as a spectator viewing a glorious dawn through the darkness of a heavy veil, wandering blind to the truths that the seasons always come and go, few things are more faithful than the tides, and, no matter the happenings of the day, the sun always rises.
But, she was different; that is to say, she knew something different. She knew it as a sailor knows the sea. No beat of the waves, blow of the winds, change of seasons could shake her tender resolve.
Perhaps this was the reason her presence seemed to melt the muck from your soul. Her voice, too, was not simply soothing; such a word cheapens the experience. Truth be told, every word she spoke was more of a whispered lullaby, a hummed hymn, a gentle unaccompanied melody in need of no other. The breath of her voice coated you as a warm blanket on a cold, brisk day, laying upon you a depth of dignity—a presumed, unabashed dignity—and your soul breathed a newness, a sigh, for what should have always been. There was no one like her this side of heaven; but, such a soul does not come without cost. And, she bore it. Eternally. Faithfully. Willingly.
To the daring desperate, to those desperately daring, to those who would endure it, to those with the courage to listen, still Elpis whispers: everything beautiful rises from broken earth.