Sunset in Your Country, Sunrise in Mine
Maybe it’s because last week I wrote about my Belgian family. Whatever the reason, I have had Libby Roderick’s song, Cradle of Dawn, going through my head for days and days. As earworms go, that is a pretty good one to have. The song is beautiful. I encourage you to listen to it yourself on something like Spotify or Bandcamp, which would give Roderick some small compensation for her work. Better yet, buy the song so that you can put it on your playlist with a free conscience. (As for me, I purchased her CD years ago and still love listening to it.)
Here are the Cradle of Dawn lyrics.
Cradle of Dawn, by Libby Roderick
Chorus: Go to sleep, welcome the night
I will be here in the morning light
Slip into dreams, you’ve done all that you can
I’ll hold you here in the dawn.
Sunset in your country, sunrise in mine
Lay down your body, feel mine begin to rise
Sunset in my country, sunrise in yours
I feel you there in the dawn.
The forces facing us are terrible indeed
My hope may flicker in the night
But in the morning I will plant another seed
And while you sleep it seeks the light. (Chorus)
There are no promises that we will see the day
The dreams we live for will succeed
But I can promise you that halfway ‘round the world
I’ll hold the light up while you sleep
We need a quiet place to let our spirits be
Somewhere that we are safe from harm
So my beloveds, as the moonbeams touch the sea
Rest in the cradle of the dawn
Go to sleep, welcome the night
I will be here in the morning light
Slip into dreams, you’ve done all that you can
I’ll hold you here in the dawn.
Sunset in your country, sunrise in mine
Lay down your body, feel mine begin to rise
Sunset in my country, sunrise in yours
I feel you there in the dawn.
I’ll hold you here in the dawn.
Rest in the cradle of dawn.
Cradle of Dawn is a lullaby for the whole world. There is so much I love about it, starting with the title, which is echoed in the very last line of the song: “Rest in the cradle of dawn.” From beginning to end, the cradle of dawn.
Let’s start with the word, “cradle.” Is there anything more comforting than a rocking cradle? The soothing motion, the warming blankets, and the singing parent conspire to help the infant release any anxiety or fear and fall fast asleep. Just imagining that scene — from the perspective of both child and (for me) mother — quiets my worried soul.
Then there is the word, “dawn.” Glorious color. New beginning. Enlightenment.
I don’t always see the dawn, especially in the weeks on either side of the summer solstice, when dawn arrives very early here in eastern Maine. But, over the course of the year, I often wake early enough to marvel at the pink glow in the east — in my case filtered through a grove of pine trees. Deep pink framed by green pine needles. If I am outside at dawn, I can watch the colors march across the sky until the light turns golden with the actual sunrise.
I am most thrilled by the moments when the sun is still obscured by the horizon. The gloaming — those lightening moments right before the first bit of pink emerges — is filled with hope and anticipation. I look east, watching the horizon ease from black to gray. I know what’s coming. I just don’t know exactly how the cradle of dawn will look. How pink will the sky be? How orange? How purple? Will haze or clouds be part of the show?
Actually, “gloaming” is one of my favorite words. The gloaming itself is one of my favorite times of day. If you miss it at dawn, you have another chance to witness it at dusk. In both cases, for a brief period, you occupy a place that is not quite day and not quite night. It is something in between — a liminal time, a neither-here-nor-there time, a threshold time. And threshold times are special. The bud has thrust itself up but hasn’t yet opened. The baby is in the womb but not yet born. The beloved is dying, but still breathing and heart still beating. A time of transition, the gloaming offers space for reflection on both what was and what is to come.
Years ago, when Alzheimer’s Disease was making its final assault against my beloved father, a Lakota colleague told me, “My people say someone like your father is sacred, because he walks with a foot in each world — one foot in the world of the living and one foot in the world of the dead.” I often think of her words when I encounter liminal spaces. Thresholds open me up because I can occupy two realities, two realms, simultaneously.
At the end of a difficult day, my mother used to say, “Tomorrow is another day.” The cradle of dawn holds me, opening me from one reality to another. Occupying the sacred, liminal edge of a new day, I cannot know all that will transpire, but I can lend my heart to possibility and hope.
What kind of possibility does Libby Roderick evoke in her song? For me, her song elicits the possibility that human beings might support one another — a world where we take turns at working and resting, giving and receiving. Cradle of Dawn bids me to recognize we are all, always, creating a world together. There is an ebb and flow to the way we shape things: work, rest, work, rest, give, receive, give, receive. The question is, what kind of world do we want to co-create? How about co-creating a world of unity and cooperation as opposed to one of division and strife?
Of course, I understand human beings have nothing to do with the powers that govern stars and planets. Nonetheless, I find it moving to imagine that somewhere on the other side of the world, people are holding the light up while I sleep, and, come morning, people in my realm will take over and hold the light up in return. All around the world, people raising their arms up to the light as it travels overhead. An endless wave all across the world. Visualizing the world engaged, together, in passing the light to one another helps me to transcend my own particularity and to abandon harmful, petty divisions and polarizing views I might be harboring.
There are so many places that need that light — Sudan, Ukraine, Gaza, Israel, to name just a few. Everywhere children go to sleep at night and wake in the morning hungry and afraid. Everywhere land, waters, and air are being exploited and polluted. “The forces facing us are terrible indeed. My hope may flicker in the night,” says Roderick. While I tremble in the dark, I need the reassurance of hope cast toward me from the other side of the world. And, when I wake, I need to keep that hope alive in my own way for those facing the abyss.
For me, Libby Roderick’s song paints a picture of transformation. Not a concrete, specific, or literal action — for, indeed, no one of us can hold up the sky or move the sun and moon. Instead, the song depicts a change of heart: one that recognizes we are all joined together. We are kin. What we do here affects what happens there. Our actions and words can purvey hope and love. Or not. Doesn’t all change, the important kinds of change, begin with change of heart?
I’ll hold you here in the dawn.
Rest in the cradle of dawn.
Love,
Sylvia