What To Remember When Waking

Photo by pure julia on Unsplash

This poem was first introduced to me by my friend Alan. He was a person who tried to live life deeply, digging into moments looking for joy and experiences. He loved fine food, spoke Italian, and took walks in the woods with his dog. He spent as much time in nature as he could, and he played a mean saxophone. He would always stop for sushi when he got off a plane (and he travelled a lot). He would randomly send me photos from first class, or from interesting places he visited on work trips. He had a beautiful loft in his home with a nook at one end. There were big windows where the morning light would pour in.

The last time I saw Alan, I was sitting in a restaurant, and I saw him out of the window — looked like he was grabbing a quick takeout lunch between meetings. I thought about going out to say hello, but didn't. A few weeks later I heard that Alan had taken his life. I learned a lot from Alan. I hope that he's found the peace he so vigorously searched for.

In that first
hardly noticed
moment
in which you wake,
coming back
to this life
from the other
more secret,
moveable
and frighteningly
honest
world
where everything
began,
there is a small
opening
into the new day
that closes
the moment
you begin your plans.
What you can plan
is too small
for you to live.
What you can live
wholeheartedly
will make plans
enough
for the vitality
hidden in your sleep.
To become human
is to become visible
while carrying
what is hidden
as a gift to others.
To remember
the other world
in this world
is to live in your
true inheritance.
You are not
a troubled guest
on this earth,
you are not
an accident
amidst other accidents
you were invited
from another and greater
night
than the one
from which
you have just emerged.
Now, looking through
the slanting light
of the morning
window toward
the mountain
presence
of everything
that can be,
what urgency
calls you to your
one love?
What shape waits
in the seed of you
to grow and spread
its branches
against a future sky?
Is it waiting
in the fertile sea?
In the trees
beyond the house?
In the life
you can imagine
for yourself?
In the open
and lovely
white page
on the waiting desk?

~ David Whyte