Do not say, 'It is morning,' and dismiss it with a name of

Host:
The morning had just broken open — not loudly, not with fanfare, but with that quiet authority only dawn possesses. The sky was a newborn color, somewhere between silver and breath. A thin mist rose over the riverbank, and the world seemed suspended between sleep and awakening.

The air tasted clean, as if the earth had been rinsed overnight. The faint hum of birds, the slow unfurling of light through trees, the distant murmur of a city still dreaming — everything spoke the same language: begin again.

At the edge of this stillness stood Jack and Jeeny.
He with his hands in his coat pockets, grey eyes watching the horizon with his usual mixture of skepticism and wonder.
She with her hair loose, her brown eyes wide and soft, soaking in the light as though she could drink it.

She broke the silence, her voice quiet but full of meaning, as she quoted softly — almost to herself:

"Do not say, 'It is morning,' and dismiss it with a name of yesterday. See it for the first time as a newborn child that has no name." — Rabindranath Tagore

Jeeny:
(softly, almost reverently)
There’s something sacred about that, isn’t there? The idea that every morning is new — not just a repeat of yesterday.

Jack:
(smirking faintly)
Yeah. Though most people greet mornings like an obligation, not a revelation.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s why Tagore said not to name it. The moment you call it morning, you put it back in a box — label it routine, strip it of wonder.

Jack:
So you want me to walk around saying, “Ah yes, behold, the nameless time of light?”

Jeeny:
(laughing softly)
No. I want you to feel it before you define it.

Jack:
(pauses)
That’s harder than it sounds.

Jeeny:
(smiling gently)
Exactly. That’s why it’s worth doing.

Host:
The sun climbed higher, gilding the rippling surface of the river. The mist began to thin, and the reflection of the sky shimmered — both familiar and foreign. It was, as Tagore wrote, a newborn morning, and the world was still deciding what name to give it.

Jack:
You know, humans have this obsession with naming things. It’s how we control them.

Jeeny:
Or how we lose them.

Jack:
Hmm. Maybe naming is a kind of forgetting.

Jeeny:
Exactly. Once you name something, you stop seeing it. You categorize it. It becomes a concept, not an experience.

Jack:
So, what — Tagore wants us to live in permanent amnesia?

Jeeny:
(smiling)
No. He wants us to live in permanent awe.

Jack:
That’s exhausting.

Jeeny:
(laughing)
Only if you mistake awe for effort. Awe isn’t work, Jack — it’s surrender.

Host:
The light shifted, catching in her hair like fire. Jack glanced at her, the corner of his mouth lifting, not because he disagreed — but because he couldn’t.

Jack:
You really believe we can see the same sunrise differently every day?

Jeeny:
Yes. Because we’re not the same people every day.

Jack:
That’s optimistic.

Jeeny:
No — it’s honest. Every morning, something in us has changed, even if we don’t notice. That’s why mornings are miracles — they meet new versions of us.

Jack:
And most of us meet them like we’re clocking in for a shift.

Jeeny:
Exactly. We wake up, but we don’t wake up.

Jack:
(pausing, looking at the light)
You make it sound like consciousness is a lost art.

Jeeny:
Maybe it is. Maybe awareness is the only prayer that still matters.

Jack:
You’d get along with Tagore. He’d probably write you into a poem.

Jeeny:
Only if I promised to stay curious.

Host:
The river rippled, catching light in fragments — gold, white, silver, gone. The wind brushed against them, cool and fleeting, like a reminder that nothing, not even this moment, stays.

Jack:
You know what I envy about Tagore?

Jeeny:
What?

Jack:
His ability to make wonder sound simple.

Jeeny:
That’s because he understood stillness. You can’t write like that unless you’ve listened to silence long enough for it to speak back.

Jack:
Most people don’t stay quiet long enough for that.

Jeeny:
Most people don’t realize silence isn’t empty — it’s pregnant.

Jack:
Pregnant with what?

Jeeny:
Possibility. The next thought, the next breath, the next sunrise.

Jack:
(smirking)
You really think like a poet.

Jeeny:
And you think like a philosopher afraid to feel.

Jack:
Touché.

Host:
The morning grew brighter, but the world around them softened — the kind of brightness that doesn’t blind but clarifies. Birds crossed the water in arcs, each wingbeat a punctuation mark in the silence.

Jeeny:
I think Tagore’s right — we lose life when we assume we’ve seen it before.

Jack:
So the antidote is what? Forgetfulness?

Jeeny:
No. Presence. Seeing freshly, without expectation.

Jack:
But how do you do that when life repeats itself?

Jeeny:
It doesn’t repeat itself. We just repeat our reactions to it.

Jack:
(pauses, softly)
That’s brilliant.

Jeeny:
It’s true. Every day is new — we just drag yesterday’s eyes into it.

Jack:
And yesterday’s fears.

Jeeny:
And yesterday’s names.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
Maybe that’s what rebirth really means. Not starting over — just seeing differently.

Jeeny:
Exactly. Not a new life — a new sight.

Host:
A bell rang in the distance — church, temple, or school, it didn’t matter. The sound drifted through the mist, each toll slow and resonant, blending with the rhythm of the river’s current. The moment felt both eternal and temporary — like a held breath.

Jeeny:
You know what I think Tagore was really asking?

Jack:
What?

Jeeny:
To stop living like we’re late for something.

Jack:
(sighing softly)
That’s hard when the world’s built on deadlines.

Jeeny:
Then maybe we build a new one — one that starts with wonder, not worry.

Jack:
(smirking)
That sounds like anarchy disguised as peace.

Jeeny:
Maybe peace is the only kind of rebellion that works.

Jack:
(pauses, looking at her, then out at the sunrise)
You really believe in this — seeing the morning like it’s new?

Jeeny:
Yes. Because someday it won’t be there. And I don’t want to realize too late that I slept through grace.

Host:
The sun finally cleared the horizon, spilling gold across the water, across their faces, across the world. The river looked awake now — not just lit, but alive.

Jack blinked against the light, then smiled — a small, genuine smile that belonged to no philosophy, only to the moment.

Host:
And as the world around them unfolded, Rabindranath Tagore’s words lingered — not as metaphor, but as instruction:

That every morning is an invitation,
not a routine.

That the sunrise asks not for attention,
but for awareness.

That to see is not to look,
but to meet the world as if for the first time —
without the armor of habit,
without the weight of memory.

And that perhaps the truest form of worship
is not in prayer,
but in perception.

The light washed over them completely.
The mist lifted.

And for a fleeting, infinite moment,
the morning — nameless, innocent, and alive —
looked back at them
like a newborn world waiting to be loved.