An Indigenous Writing of Hope
NPEP student Patty Ouska reflects on finding hope and faith through the simple act of watching the sunrise—reminding us all of the power of perspective and the strength found in collective resilience.
By Patty Ouska, Co-Editor, Restorative Justice Column
Oftentimes, I struggle with my words when I am emotionally overwhelmed or simply unable to find the right words to describe what I want to convey. At those times, I look to the words of others.
I want to share with you something I borrowed from Mark Charles and Soong Chan Rah titled, “The Discipline of Watching the Sunrise” and then, reflect on what watching the sunrise means to me and to us all:
“One of the most beautiful, beneficial, and sacred disciplines I have incorporated in my life is the discipline of watching the sunrise. It's one thing to watch the sunrise a couple times a year, perhaps on Easter for a sunrise service or when you have a 6 a.m. flight ... but it is another thing altogether to intentionally rise five or six mornings a week and to be in a posture of prayer while watching the sun come up over the horizon.”
“When you do it day after day, week after week, month after month, and eventually year after year ... subtle changes become glaring.”
“Every morning in the spring, the sun moves just a little further north; every morning in the fall, the sun inches a bit further south. The birds come and go, migrating in the general direction of the sun’s path. It is quiet. In the spring, the sun rises just a minute or two earlier as the days grow long, and the earth warms as it begins to wake up. And in the fall, the sunrise happens just a minute or two later as the earth cools and prepares to go to sleep.”
“But the biggest benefit from this discipline of watching the sunrise has come not from enjoying the beauty or even experiencing the seasons, but from an understanding much deeper in my soul. ... The longer I was privileged to see the masterful and artistic genius of Creator, and the longer I was blessed to stand in the midst of the grandeur of this masterpiece, the easier it became to acknowledge that neither I, nor all of humankind for that matter was in control. ... This work of art, this amazing ongoing, beautifully choreographed production, is our blessing to observe, it is our privilege to participate in, and even our solemn responsibility to steward. But it is not ours to control.”
Over the years, I’ve learned that one of the best ways to remind myself of my limitations is to follow the example of my ancestors: to rise early in the morning and greet the sunrise.
Recently, for the first time in three decades, I was on the other side, driving down I-55 for hours on my way to a court writ. It was early, but I did not close my eyes at all. For I saw the sunrise from a different window, a different perspective. I was given renewed faith and hope.
On my drive back to Logan on I-55, I was overwhelmed. I was able to breathe — the air was different. To me, this was hope.
I have been incarcerated for 31 years. It has been a struggle, as I’m sure it has for many of you who have been incarcerated. Sometimes the pain and suffering feel like it will never end.
But know this is not forever. As we struggle to find our voices and stories — in our past, our present, and our future — know that there is power in the collective. Together, we are more powerful, more profound.
My hope is that you see the beauty in the sunrise and never give up the hope that change is coming.
