Where Dawn Finds Me

By: John Kazerooni

I close my eyes and imagine.

I am sitting in my old wooden chair beside the window of my cottage, the chair that has held my quiet mornings and wandering thoughts for years. The window opens onto the world like a living painting. The sun is only beginning to rise, and the first birds loosen their songs into the clean air, inviting me to share in the simple joy that arrives with the morning.

My cottage is still—wrapped in a silence so gentle that even my breath feels like part of the landscape. I bring out my sketchbook, my pencils, and my brushes. This morning, I want to paint the valley—to hold its beauty not only in my eyes, but beneath my hands. As the soft light enters the room, I begin the first quiet strokes, letting the world outside guide my lines.

Before me lies a lake, its surface a trembling mirror of the dawn. Tall green grasses fringe its edges, swaying without obedience to direction—north, south, east, and west—dancing to the soft and gentle breeze. Their movement is a song no human hand could ever reproduce, yet with no success I try to capture a whisper of it on my page. And among the grasses, tulips bloom in vibrant colors, blending in ways no photograph could ever preserve.

Beyond the lake, mountains rise—ancient, unwavering—stretching from east to west, cloaked in towering trees. On clear mornings the mountains lay their reflections upon the lake, forming a double world: one alive in stone, one shimmering in water. I paint their soft outlines, knowing I will never match their grandeur, yet grateful simply to witness their stillness.

First, the clouds begin to gather, and then the soft and gentle drizzle descends—a whispered caress upon the lake and valley, as if the sky itself were breathing its tender blessing. Each drop makes a widening ring—circles opening into circles—so the lake becomes a shifting tapestry of ripples. When the sun slips from behind a cloud, its light dances across those rings and the mirrored mountains, creating colors and movements no brush can fully hold. Still, I lay down strokes, guided by awe more than skill.

In the distance, deer appear—mothers and their young—moving lightly across the valley. They graze and wander beneath the drizzle, their peacefulness settling into my heart and into my painting.

Above them, birds swirl and scatter, gathering in shapes that seem almost like secret messages written in the sky. I pause to watch, sensing that some beauty is meant only for the soul, not the canvas.

Every tree along the slopes seems to speak—some whispering old sorrows, others singing quiet joys—but all transparent, all honest, as if the valley keeps no secrets.

Hours slip by unnoticed. The sky clears. The sun climbs higher. The mountains and their reflection shine together in the lake—two worlds meeting in a single, trembling line. I blend their colors on my canvas, careful and grateful.

The day drifts toward evening. The sun melts into the horizon, painting the world with red and gold. My cottage grows dim; I light a single candle. Its warm glow wavers across my half-finished painting, as if blessing the colors I have placed.

Night arrives softly. The sky blossoms with stars—so many it seems the heavens have opened. The moon rises, casting silver light across the lake. The mountains appear again in reflection, gentler now, dreamlike and distant. I set my brushes down and simply watch, letting the night fill me.

Never have I felt such stillness. Such peace. In this vast silence, I feel parts of myself returning—pieces I believed time had scattered. It is as though the valley, the mountains, the quiet sky whisper truths I had long forgotten. Something opens within me, a soft unveiling of my destiny, delicate and certain, like the first petal of a flower pushing itself gently into the light.

Time dissolves. The night thins toward dawn. My eyes grow heavy, yet a quiet fear presses against my heart: I do not want to close my eyes—perhaps I may miss the very moment of my joy and peace.

I fear losing even a heartbeat of this miracle, as if it might vanish the moment I look away.

But exhaustion is warm and patient. My head drifts to the table beside my brushes and sketchbook. The candle flame trembles one last time, leaning toward the window as if keeping watch over me.

And when I open my eyes—still aching with longing—there it is: The sun returning.

A thin ribbon of gold breaking the horizon. The mountains are waking in silence. Their perfect reflection shimmering on the lake like a fragile promise.

The new light touches my world with such tenderness that my breath catches. Tears rise—quiet, unbidden, but welcome—because in that moment I understand something simple and profound: I had not only been watching the valley. The valley had been watching me. It held me through the night, cradled my tired spirit, and waited with infinite patience for my awakening.

This dawn feels different. It feels like the beginning of something I had been seeking for years—something I did not know how to name until now.

Another dawn. Another chance to imagine. Another day where beauty does not merely wait—it calls for me softly, as if it knows my name.

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