Light

Nature has been for me, for as long as I remember, a source of solace,
inspiration, adventure, and delight; a home, a teacher, a companion.
—Lorraine Anderson

I love mornings. Which might be a surprise to anyone who knows my sleeping habits lately. But I love them: the chill, the sunrise, the birds, the peacefulness and solitude. If only they didn’t come so early!

I haven’t ignored all mornings, though, and one morning in February 2007 stands out to me. I had spent a very very cold weekend in north eastern Idaho at a cabin with some very very good friends. On Sunday morning, I decided to get up early and watch the sun rise. It was dark when I woke up. Trying not to disturb anyone else, I made my way to the cabin’s deck. I knew it overlooked a clump of aspen and pine trees, an open snow-covered space, and a few out-buildings, but I couldn’t see much past the red timbers of the deck. I wondered if maybe I had gotten up too early, but I waited, in the cold, anticipating the arrival of the sun.

Almost imperceptibly, it got lighter. Soon I could make out tops of the trees and buildings against the graying sky. Though it seemed the light level had not changed much, I knew I was seeing definition in the scenery that had not been there five minutes before. Not much time passed, and I realized I was starting to see individual branches, and then some shadowy contours in the snow. It was getting lighter, and I expected to see the bright sun on the horizon any minute.

But the sun didn’t show. Instead, after a time I began to see leaves, and the outlines of footprints we’d made in the snow the day before. I saw pine needles and the color of the paint on the out-buildings. And I was again sure the sun would immediately break into my visible sky.

But the sun stayed hidden. There was good evidence, however, that it was approaching. Soon I noticed the sky was a lighter grey, and then pink. I could see clouds, and far-off mountains. I could make out the cabins across the way that had been veiled in pine-tree shadow just a short time before. In fact, by the time the sun did actually show itself, its forerunner-rays had lit the area to nearly full visibility.

And then, there was the sun.

Light is a strange thing. Rather, the way we perceive light is strange. Our eyes will adjust to even minimal amounts of light, and we think we can see. And we can, sort of. I generally think the light in my living room is sufficient. I can watch TV, work on the computer, flip through a magazine. And I really don’t notice the room is a little dim until I want to do focused reading, and I have to go sit next to the lamp. It’s even more pronounced when I come in from outside. The contrast between my (apparently) dimly lit room and the sun outside is blinding.

It fascinates me that I think I can see, and that I think the sun is surely almost risen. When in fact the light is dim, and the sun is still far off. And I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere.

Had I not seen the Sun

I could have born the shade.

But Light a newer Wilderness

My Wilderness hath made.

—Emily Dickinson