One recent morning, I mustered the consciousness to pull myself out of bed and go to Heroes Garden to wait for the sunrise. Early-rising friends had recommended this as a beautiful way to start a day, but I was skeptical of anything requiring alertness before dawn. As it turned out, the sun never showed up; instead, a chance encounter sparked a moment of inspiration.
The fortunate placement of Daylight Saving Time this week meant that the sun was scheduled to rise at 7:14 a.m., a manageable time even for me. As I should have expected, however, I struggled to appreciate the decision at the time.
My thought pattern was a disorganized, disgruntled stream: What am I doing up so early? It’s cold outside. I hate the cold. I should have brought socks. Who knew my roommates were all up at this time? I shouldn’t have listened to those friends who told me this was a great idea. They’re the friends who exercise all the time. I don’t really know where I fit in with them. At least I didn’t hit any deer on my drive up here without contacts in.
Compounding my grouchiness was the fog caking Heroes Garden, obscuring any view of the sun. The scheduled time came and went without a visible ray of light, and around 7:30 I curled up on a bench and pulled my hood tighter as dew drops plopped onto my head from the branch above. There was probably some life metaphor between the fog and sun, but I was too groggy to see it. I closed my eyes and mentally searched the day’s agenda for time slots where a nap could fit between homework and meetings.
As the clouds held their ground around the garden, a man in business clothes came up the walkway and crossed the stone to look for the sun over the edge of the pool. His polished shoes and confident demeanor made it clear that he saw many more sunrises than I did. He rested at the edge of the terrace and then turned back after concluding, as I had, that its morning performance had been canceled.
This guy probably eats Monday mornings for breakfast, I thought. He’s probably been awake long enough that he’s on his way to grab a mid-morning snack to refuel after all his pre-dawn productivity.
My flannel pajama pants had pretty much ruled out any networking opportunity between us, but as he turned back I sat up to assert an appearance of dignity. He smiled and approached me — shivering, unshowered, coming-down-with-a-cold, sleep-deprived me.
“Are you waiting for the sunrise?” he asked, in what sounded like a slight Irish accent.
“I was, yeah,” came my inspired reply.
“I think you may have missed the sunrise,” he said. “But maybe you’ll find the sun appearing.” And with a knowing smile, he walked away.
Until this moment, I had been unaware that anonymous wise men strolled the campus early in the morning, doling out encouragement to bleary-eyed students. My only prior experience with sunrises at Pepperdine has been after occasional all-nighters. Maybe I’ve been missing other things while I’m hitting the snooze. Does coffee taste better in the morning? Does the air smell sweeter? Does President Benton give wee-hour golf cart rides? Will I suddenly inherit a bank of calligraphy-worthy one-liners to toss out to other early-morning friends?
Even though I didn’t actually see the show I got up for, this experience alone is almost enough to make an early riser out of me (though the golf cart rides would really push me over the edge).
To my mysterious advisoer, thank you for bringing wonder and light to my haze. Wisdom seems to hide itself in the most unexpected places at Pepperdine. As you said, sometimes the sun must be found, and not merely waited for.
