On the burden of sunlight
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There are few stolen days in a lifetime; leap year days that are squeezed between two perfectly routine and grossly mechanical moments in our lives. Some people call it a 'snow day,' I think parents call it free time or perhaps a miracle.
I was about thirteen or fourteen when my mother tiptoed into my bedroom one morning and whispered into my ear: "School is cancelled today. Go back to bed." Was it a dream?
While doing construction on a major intersection in front of my school, a pipeline burst and flooded the campus. So hundreds of happy children took to the streets in bicycles, had an impromptu baseball game, finished the last chapter of that really great book, or just rediscovered the rhythms of a Tuesday.
I have a few moments like that every so often, when my alarm isn't set but I wake up early and drink a whole pot of coffee before my husband rises. I catch up on the news, read a few blogs, and sometimes jot a few notes for my writing while my brain still stands in limbo between the dream state and reality.
Then there are other days when the sunrises on a Saturday, or more often a Sunday when the imminence of work makes time feel scarce, that I awake with the burden if sunlight. Go on that long put-off hike today, finish Anna Karenina right now, figure out how to properly use my sewing machine instead of my ad hoc operation technique.
Make today count, make today spectacular.
The burden increases in the winter when I know my daylight hours are limited and as the afternoon light wanes, the cold, blue tint that fills my room reminds me that time is up. Have you done something meaningful with your time? Have you done something unique and memorable? Have you addressed a longtime resident on that great to-do list of yours? All this, the sun seems to wonder as she lingers on the horizon awaiting a reply.
There is none. She is gone and I have wasted a precious pipe-burst day. Or so it feels.
When I was a kid and a brand new day was placed in my hands, it seemed like a balloon that would float away if I didn't grab hold and when I did, it took me someplace unexpected and enchanting and placed my right back on my stoop at dinner time. Now, the same gift in the same hands feels like chunks of limestone from the great walls of Jerusalem and instead of reveling in delight I gaze and I scrutinize and I hope to employ it in manner that properly celebrates the ephemeral nature of sunlight.
Surely, it reveals a deeper insecurity in my psyche, the guilt and longing of the creative part of all human beings that recognizes that life is curt so we must hasten to art, to true art that warrants the very gift of life itself. I wonder if I am the only to uselessly concern myself with such things. I hope not, but I wonder.
I was about thirteen or fourteen when my mother tiptoed into my bedroom one morning and whispered into my ear: "School is cancelled today. Go back to bed." Was it a dream?
While doing construction on a major intersection in front of my school, a pipeline burst and flooded the campus. So hundreds of happy children took to the streets in bicycles, had an impromptu baseball game, finished the last chapter of that really great book, or just rediscovered the rhythms of a Tuesday.
I have a few moments like that every so often, when my alarm isn't set but I wake up early and drink a whole pot of coffee before my husband rises. I catch up on the news, read a few blogs, and sometimes jot a few notes for my writing while my brain still stands in limbo between the dream state and reality.
Then there are other days when the sunrises on a Saturday, or more often a Sunday when the imminence of work makes time feel scarce, that I awake with the burden if sunlight. Go on that long put-off hike today, finish Anna Karenina right now, figure out how to properly use my sewing machine instead of my ad hoc operation technique.
Make today count, make today spectacular.
The burden increases in the winter when I know my daylight hours are limited and as the afternoon light wanes, the cold, blue tint that fills my room reminds me that time is up. Have you done something meaningful with your time? Have you done something unique and memorable? Have you addressed a longtime resident on that great to-do list of yours? All this, the sun seems to wonder as she lingers on the horizon awaiting a reply.
There is none. She is gone and I have wasted a precious pipe-burst day. Or so it feels.
When I was a kid and a brand new day was placed in my hands, it seemed like a balloon that would float away if I didn't grab hold and when I did, it took me someplace unexpected and enchanting and placed my right back on my stoop at dinner time. Now, the same gift in the same hands feels like chunks of limestone from the great walls of Jerusalem and instead of reveling in delight I gaze and I scrutinize and I hope to employ it in manner that properly celebrates the ephemeral nature of sunlight.
Surely, it reveals a deeper insecurity in my psyche, the guilt and longing of the creative part of all human beings that recognizes that life is curt so we must hasten to art, to true art that warrants the very gift of life itself. I wonder if I am the only to uselessly concern myself with such things. I hope not, but I wonder.
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