“Realize deeply that the present moment is all you ever have.” —Eckhart Tolle
In Puerto Vallarta, the sky is a kind of gospel. Each sunrise arrives like a whisper from the divine. Each sunset, a quiet benediction. People pause. Conversations still.And then—almost always—someone nearby says it, softly, reverently: “La vida es buena.” Life is good.
This piece is a reflection of that truth. Two poems—one born in the voice of sunrise, the other in the glow of dusk—offering a practice of presence. A reminder that awakening is not just something that happens once in the morning—it is a way of being. And that letting go is not the end—but the way we begin again. E.Z.
The Day That Is Always Dawning
“Only that day dawns to which we are awake.” —Henry David Thoreau
The clocks keep ticking,
but the true day waits.
It does not arrive
with alarm bells
or headlines,
or someone else’s permission.
It waits—
just beneath the moment
you’re tempted to rush past.
We are so often elsewhere—
replaying the wound,
rehearsing the worry,
missing the miracle
at our feet.
But Presence,
as the mystics know,
is not passive.
It is a pulse.
A force.
A gateway that swings open
only when we stop
trying to force the lock.
To be present
is to return
to the stillness
beneath the noise.
To see—
the person across from you
not as a puzzle
or project
but as a whole,
living mystery.
To know—
that the world we want
won’t come later.
It comes
when we arrive.
To remember—
that the Self
is not a story
but a spark,
and this breath
s the only temple
we’ll ever need.
Only that day dawns
to which we are awake—
and that day
is not far off,
not someday,
not after everything’s fixed.
It is now.
And now again.
And now again.
And now.
The Evening That Finally Arrives
Every sunset brings the promise of a new dawn—Ralph Waldo Emerson
The sun begins to lower,
not hurried,
but certain—
like someone who knows
how to leave without regret.
And in that stretch of amber,
if you’re quiet enough,
you might feel it—
the presence
of someone you love
not vanishing,
but arriving
in another way.
The sky becomes a melody,
slow and wide.
A prelude to night,
composed in fading fire
and open silence.
This isn’t the closing act.
It’s the moment
between breaths—
a resting note,
a pause that asks nothing
but your attention.
The past may call
with its soft insistence—
the echo of laughter,
the trace of a hand
you once held close.
But sunset teaches release.
It doesn’t rewind.
It opens.
It says:
Here.
This is enough.
Only this hour
holds you fully.
Not the one you missed.
Not the one you imagine.
And here,
in this honest light,
You are not left behind.
The ones who knew you
walk beside you still—
in sky,
in breeze,
in the hush between words.
And presence—
this full-bodied, living now—
is where you finally meet them.
And if presence is the stage, then perhaps each moment is our opening night. No rehearsal. No rewind. Just this chance to arrive with eyes open, heart tuned, breath steady—and give ourselves fully to the role of being alive.
