Sunburst

It is still dark and the deal-seeking-rule-follower in me is uncomfortable, “do you think it will be a problem that we didn’t show Abbie’s National Park Pass?”

“Only for you,” Nick replies and we laugh. He’s right, I think as I look around at the cars that are also driving past the vacant toll booths. The reward for getting here before the literal crack of dawn is free entry. We locate the parking lot that yelpers agreed is closest to the observation area that several redditors claim is best for sunrise viewing at the south rim. Relying on the wisdom of strangers for a once-in-a-lifetime experience seems risky, but it was all we had time for. I start to shake the girls awake. Nick and I have been up since 3, but the girls had fallen back to sleep before we rolled out of the hotel parking lot. It is now 5:30am, and though we have time, we are still not exactly sure where we’re going or how long the walk will take.

I am a jumble of familiar emotions – anticipation evident in the continuous assault of questions (did we pick the best possible spot? Are we early enough?) mixed with frustration (these girls need to wake up!) and exhaustion. I really wanted a coffee, but no place was open. Will it be crowded at the point? How cold is it really? God, I hope this is worth the effort. Struggling into the layers we scraped together last night, I feel inadequate – I didn’t plan well enough, didn’t pack well enough. Enough! I take a deep calming breath and tell myself it will all be fine.

The girls are grumbling, “it’s dark,” “and cold,” “I need to pee.” “This better be worth it,” I growl at Nick. I look up and see he is smiling, in the way only a child-free person can. He laughs, “yeah, yeah, let’s go.”

As we begin the short hike from the car to Mather Point my mind wanders. Nick wants to go below the rim while we’re here. He sprung that on me last night and then had the nerve to make fun of me when my google search confirmed doing so could only lead to serious injury and possibly death on the perilously narrow hiking trails – many of which are not even open for the season yet as there is still snow and ice in much of the canyon. “No growth happens in the comfort zone,” a mantra I often share with my clients’ pops into my mind. The argument begins:

That’s for them, not me.

How many times will you visit the Grand Canyon – shouldn’t you truly experience it?

My safe side at war with my adventurous side, I am brought back to the present moment by the excitement in my 9-year-old’s voice, “it’s getting brighter!” Indeed, the sky has lightened perceptibly on our walk. Pale blue and lavender streaked with wispy white clouds above, and a stretch of golden light beginning to peak over the horizon. “Is that the point?” asks Annie. “Must be, let’s find a spot” Nick replies.

I am relieved, it's not as crowded as I had worried it might be. Reading my mind, Nick says, “see I told you it would be fine.” “Yeah, yeah,” I reply simultaneously annoyed and comforted by Richie’s youngest brother. Bear, our travel buddy. We've been talking about this trip for years and now we're finally here.

That familiar blend of feelings—gratitude and grief, joy and sadness fill me up creating warmth in my chest and a lump in my throat. The duality of loss and love having carved a winding path through my heart like the Colorado River a mile below us at the Canyon floor.

“How much longer?”

“I'm cold,” and “I'm hungry,” my daughters break through my thoughts. Nick answers for me, “two minutes, stop your whining.” Playfully punching the girls, he softens his rebuke like a Zinn, their father never truly gone as long as we have moments like these with the people who knew him best.

A silence falls over Mather Point as everyone turns their attention to the horizon. The sky has lightened a bit more, its brilliant center growing so slowly I wonder if I'm imagining it. I am brought back to other awesome moments in nature—I can almost smell the

redwoods as I remember the time a forest in Northern California healed my broken heart, I breathe in and see the waves crashing on the beach at Watch Hill on a late afternoon walk—alone but not lonely, I look over the edge and I'm grateful for the railing something I would have appreciated along the petrifying hike up to, and worse, back down from, Devil's Bridge earlier this week. I’m still not sure if the thrill was worth the terror.

As the golden glow continues to creep upwards, a familiar tune starts to play on a fellow traveler’s phone. “Here Comes the Sun” indeed. The bright orange ball of light pops up at the horizon, rising for us, even as it sets on the other side of the world. I am momentarily struck by the inaccuracy of our terminology, after all, we are the ones in motion. In my peripheral vision I notice the girls looking at me and nudging each other, “she’s crying…again.” Not looking away even though the sun is so bright it's almost painful to watch I whisper back, “these are happy tears.” I hug my girls, breathe in their sweetness. I'm letting Nick take the pictures, because I want to take in the experience – I know I’ll be happy to have photos to look back at later, just as I also know that those photos will not come close to truly capturing the wonder and awe in this perfect moment.

“Your daddy would have loved this,” I whisper to our girls, my voice cracking as the sun has cracked the sky, as my heart feels like it will crack open, so full of the beauty of love and loss – of life – that I am sure it could burst.