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

Let Them Eat Cake

It matters immensely. The slightest sound matters. The most momentary
rhythm matters. You can do as you please, yet everything matters.
—Wallace Stevens

I'm a pretty linear thinker, most of the time. Except for when I think about calendars. In my mind the year is round, like a clock, with February on the 2 and October on the 10. But words, they're linear—even chronological. If you say The boy threw the ball, my image will be linear, left to right, of the boy, then his throwing arm, then finally the ball leaving his hand.

So it doesn't surprise me that one particular idiom has vexed me most of my life: You want to have your cake and eat it, too. My mother often used this phrase. Usually lightheartedly. Usually when I expressed a wish for two mutually exclusive things—like getting good grades without doing homework, or driving the family car without pumping the gas, or learning to play the piano without practicing.

I knew what my mom meant. I couldn't have it both ways. I could never have both sides of my two-sided wishes—it would be impossible. But I have to confess, the usage of the phrase never made any sense to me. Linearly, the sequence of the sentence is completely logical: first to have cake and then to eat cake. Of course a person ought to be able to have her cake and eat it, too. What would be the point of having cake if not to eat it? That's what cake is for! Whenever anyone said, "You want to have your cake and eat it, too," I've always wanted to respond with an impassioned, "Of course I do! It only makes sense!"

But recently I was enlightened by some very old writings of some very dead white guys:
Would yee both eat your cake and have your cake?(John Heywood 1497-1580)
You cannot eat your cake and have your cake.
(Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra 1547-1616)
Wouldst thou both eat thy cake and have it?
(George Herbert 1593-1633)

Did you notice the change in word order? That reversal from have your cake and eat it to eat your cake and have it was like a revelation. An angel-singing, sunlight-streaming, Sword-in-the-Stone-imitating revelation. Suddenly this pesky idiom made sense! It does indeed ask the impossible—to first eat your cake and then have your cake; in the eating, the cake is gone, and so it can no more be had. Which all seems a much more sensible (and linearly accurate) way to express the idea that you can't have it both ways. Perhaps if my mother had said, "You want to eat your cake and have it, too," I wouldn't have wanted to shout "Of course I do!" I might instead have been inclined to respond with a calm and thoughtful "Ahh, I see your point."

Mmmmm. Now I want some cake.

Did you know this idom helped identify the Unabomber? Apparently he used the more archaic word order (to eat your cake and have your cake) in his Manifesto. According to the NY Times, "His brother David Kazynski was able to identify Ted after reading the Manifesto. Ted and their mother both used the more accurate but older and less popular use of the phrase."