I am enchanted by the sky. My kids laugh about this fixation, and the myriad of photographs I take of cloud formations streaked with sunbeams. When I am driving, I will often pull over to the side of the road to whip out my phone and take yet another picture of the wonder above me.
This vast expanse is calming to me. I get lost in it, in much the same way that I get lost in the rhythmic lapping of the waves when I am near the ocean.

But Tennessee is land locked, so I turn my face to the sky. Perhaps I am drawn to whatever is beyond that which I can see.

My father died six years ago. And yet he is very much alive. I know this for a fact, and I feel it in my spirit. He lives in a realm I cannot see, because it is just beyond the confines of physical reality-just beyond the sky, so to speak. When I peer into the perfect blue horizon, I often wonder if he is somehow looking back at me from that place. I wonder what the sky looks like from that other side. If anything, I imagine it is even more glorious than the firmament we consider.

I know a bit about the science of the sky, but just a bit. We studied it in school of course, atmospheric layers and light reflection and refraction. My first adult job was doing the nightly weather report for a local television station, so I learned more about pressure systems and fronts and air currents and such. But it is not the science of the sky that moves me.

It is rather the nature of the sky-the marvel of this ever changing yet oh so constant beauty around and above me. The sky helps me keep life in perspective. It makes me feel very small, in a good way. It encourages me to look up, and it reminds me to look beyond.

A few weeks ago I stood on a beach in the very early morning for over an hour and watched the sun rise.  I did this for two reasons. First, our hosts at the beach lodge had told my husband and me to make sure we saw the sun rise over the water. “It starts at 5:30,” they offered.

The second reason was the voice in my head that has been gently reminding me for months now, “Don’t miss the morning.”

I am not now, nor have I ever been, a morning person. Something in my creative juices wakens around ten o’clock in the evening and keeps my head spinning with ideas far into the night. Mornings normally find me hitting the snooze button and groggily stumbling into the kitchen to make coffee.

But on this particular African morning, I willingly rose at five to dress and head out to the beach, not wanting to miss the morning.

It began softly. The sky turned palest gray where all had been black. Pale gray took on rosy peach tinges then melted into softest blue. I thought about the first chapter of Genesis. The creation of Light precedes the creation of heavenly bodies, including the sun. Light has a far more powerful source. Every morning is a reminder of that. The Light appears well before the sun. But I digress.

I stood on the beach-really WE stood on the beach, because I was with my husband-for half an hour watching the sky change colors before the sun ever appeared. And when it did, it was a tiny blip on the horizon, a red-orange orb being plucked from the lake. It was SMALL, and seemed to part from the water reluctantly before rising, ever so slowly, into the morning sky. The slightest rosy sunbeam streaked the water.

So that’s it, I thought. Not exactly life changing, but a lovely morning.

But as the sun continued to rise, it grew exponentially larger, and the pale reddish-orange turned deep and fiery red, then brightest gold, then yellow, then searing yellowish white.  I couldn’t stop watching the transformation. The beam across the water became a shimmering golden highway of light so bright it hurt to look at it directly. The surface of the lake sparkled red and yellow and gold, and the water seemed to dance. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to cry. The beauty was overwhelming.

Village women walked by with loads of firewood skillfully balanced on their heads. Fishing boats glided through the sun-streaked water, making for shore. Quiet gave way to voices, distant shouts and laughter.  The day was full on.

It was hard to turn away from the water, but eventually we did, and made our way back up the hill for breakfast, pondering the possibilities of another day.

How many mornings have I missed? Oh, I’ve seen some magnificent sunrises, but I confess there have been far too few mornings in my life when I have let the beauty of a new day captivate my soul with its promise.

I am becoming an earlier riser. I don’t want to miss the morning.

E-nough:  occurring in such quantity, quality, or scope as to fully meet demands, needs, or expectations.

Enough is such a peculiar looking word.  It’s one of those words I stumbled over as a child. An avid and highly proficient reader, I knew its meaning from the context in books. But until I had heard the word spoken in conjunction with seeing it in written form, I wasn’t sure how the word sounded.

That wasn’t my only struggle with “enough.”

In a world where often it seems that people are valued for their performance- for their contributions- I have worried throughout my life about doing “enough” or being “enough.”

As a performer I have rarely felt prepared “enough.”

As a compulsive giver, I have often shared more than I could afford, in an effort to present an offering worthy “enough.”

As a sugar addict and stress-eater, for years I have had trouble knowing when enough is…enough.

When I was in my teens, I aquired a dizzying array of trophies from my various competitive pursuits. My parents bought shelves and filled the music room with evidence of my success. It was much more than enough. Years later they packed up to move to another state. We wondered what to do with the relics of my earlier successes. What does one do with molded plastic and chiseled stone that takes up space shouting “I did something once!”

Enough.

We dumped them in boxes and took them to a charity, hoping they might be recycled into something…useful.

Confession: I still struggle with enough.

At times I exhaust myself trying to do too much for too many.

I often eat more than is needed to satisfy hunger.

I dream about doing something, becoming someone who is somehow more

worthy than I am.

But sometimes….when I sit quietly and read a book, or watch the changing cloud patterns in the sky, or listen intently to beautiful music, or laugh as my grown up children recall favorite childhood memories around the dinner table….my heart stops striving.  I remember that life is a gift, and this present moment is

Enough.