Spring has arrived in the southern hemisphere in a symphonic flourish of birdsong. Our days warm quite nicely pushing up against the edges of summer, but the nights are yet cool, wearing winter’s chill like damp boots. “Good sleeping weather,” we would say back in Pennsylvania, with bedroom sashes lifted, tucked under a blanket.
Quite often, I awaken to the call of the earliest bird of morn’, a soloist cantering before the first flicks of dawn’s light. As I lie in my room in the dark comfort of my still sleep-dreamy head, I begin to imagine this troubadour perched in a tree beyond my bed to be a sort of avian alarm clock, pulpiteering to the others that the new day approaches, “We must ready ourselves!” Or maybe he is just a friend of the nightowl, awake and alive way into the wee hours like artists and writers and nightclub singers, who will sleep until noon while the others build nests and gather food. Or perhaps this prepunctual riser is merely telling the stories that need to be told, singing the long songs of origin and myth, reminding us all again the way of the world.
For me, this time in-between the days is weightless, no longer saddled with the bags of yesterday’s worries and not yet responsible for the hopeful prospects of tomorrow. I slip easily back into my pillow for a second, deeper sleep, knowing that in due time the sun will peek over the distant horizon line and filter through my bedroom curtain in a hazy veil of slate-blue, fine and eternal. And as it does, beyond my open window in the dewy forest garden, an entire orchestra of birds will begin tweetering in full-throated chorus, as though to will the gray mist of night cede to deep rich greens and violaceous blues, and the sky to lighten — ever so slowly it goes, beyond the perception of human eyes, so that the formless shadows of night become the flowering vines and leafy bushes of dawn.
Sometimes I slide from undercover out into this magical space to witness the fullness of its glory, catching myself in extended moments of grace that defy conventional time and that adhere to my soul like wetness on my bare skin. The chill of night is pushed against by the golden winds of dawn, where the lines between subtlety and boldness converge and coalesce. In this Morning Glory, light and dark, day and night, beast and plant and man are one in the same; the impermeable borders of distinction dissolve to porous membrane, as concepts of self transform into a streaming universal experience.
Yes, spring has finally arrived.
by Jason Weaver
Original Painting, A Glória da Manhã (2015), acrylic on canvas, 70x100cm, by Jason Weaver.
For more information on this painting and others in my studio, please check out my artist blog, JasonWeaverArtist