Each morning of this vacation I have risen well before the sun so that I might have the privilege of watching it break through over the horizon in a glorious colorful display of anticipation, optimism and potential. Sunrises are the best wherever you may be, but sunrises over the ocean are magical. This week there has been a morning star just above the horizon in the hours before sunrise. I watch it rise higher in the sky each morning until it is obscured by the light of dawn. It does so with no where near the drama that the sun displays following the same course, but it is lovely nonetheless.
I keep hearing the refrain: I feel, I feel, I feel like a morning star going through my head, but I'm not really sure what it means. A quick google search reveals a variety of possibilities and I decide -- since there is not a universally accepted right answer -- to allow myself to interpret it in a way which rings true to me.
A morning star is out of place. An anachronism. A remnant of the night sky existing in the early light of day. It doesn't belong.
A morning star is solitary. It shines alone. It doesn't seek approval -- it just does what it does.
A morning star does the same thing the sun does, but gets none of the glory.
It does what it does and it does so dependably and with no need for recognition. It does it because that's what it does.
I have scientific friends who will no doubt want to point out that the morning star I'm seeing is probably not a star at all, but a planet -- making my comparisons to the sun invalid.
I have spiritual friends who will no doubt want to point out the mystical significance of the morning star.
I also have friends who will take these words for what they are: the early morning musings of someone who is just trying to figure out her place in the cosmos.