Morning Has Broken

Morning has broken,
Like the first morning,
Blackbird has spoken, Like the first bird;
Praise for the singing, Praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing Fresh from the Word.

Sweet the rain's new fall, Sunlit from heaven,
Like the first dewfall On the first grass;
Praise for the sweetness,
Of the wet garden,
Sprung in completeness
Where his feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight, Mine is the morning,
Born of the one light Eden saw play;
Praise with elation, Praise every morning,
God's re-creation Of the new day.

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This morning I went to my favorite yoga class at Green Tea Yoga. Larissa is the teacher. She is Ukrainian and beautiful with black hair, pale skin, and a slender, loving body. She calls us by name and I like the class particularly, because the 5 or so of us are now "regulars". Of the regulars, most are, themselves, instructors, so I get a great challenge with adjustments and alignments that make my spine sing!

Larissa has some interesting taste in music. She has played techno, Beyonce, soul and some new age stuff at the end during shavasana. I love it when she plays Krishna Das, or when anyone plays Krishna Das, because it too makes my spine sing. On this Wednesday, I was a moment or two late and I immediately went into the already flowing sun-salutations. Within minutes, some lovely version of "We Gather Together" played as we danced through a few more ut katasanas. It was so beautiful and poignantly appropriate for our class of regulars. I softened, I flowed. The next song really got to me though. Morning Has Broken. It was a harp instrumental and it was so lovely, and it was one of those surprises that catches you and makes you know for sure, that God is near.

This had been a "surprise" hymn that my mother had picked out for her memorial service. I thought I knew all of her service by heart well before she ever died. She had planned the whole thing and even met with the clergy to finalize her last wishes, right down to who would sit in which pew. I really was caught by surprise at her lovely selections, and their beauty was in their light hearted, joyful lyrics, but also in knowing that she chose them.

These last few days and weeks, I have been praying that my mother would show me some recognizable sign that her spirit is OK, and she knows I am talking to her. Before she died I asked her this as well, and requested that she make it something clear, not open for too much interpretation. While on my yoga mat, nothing could have been clearer. It was not so much the song that made me cry but the feeling that she was actually there. I cried in downward facing dog, which made my tears go up my forehead instead of down my cheeks. Nobody knew of my own private cry on my mat, or of the joyfulness I felt as I finally sprung forward to meet my hands.

I think I can now get through the anniversary of her final trip to hospice and her death on Easter Monday at cocktail hour. I can get through a lot, because there is a very real feeling in my heart of praise.

Praise with elation
Praise every morning
God's re-creation, of the new day.