Sometimes light falls on things in a fleeting moment. The subtlety of the moment can be so quick and startling that you suspect it was placed in front of you just so you’ll open your eyes and see.
A few minutes ago, feeling unproductive and tired, as I usually do in late afternoon, I go into the kitchen at the office and peel an orange, which I hope will revive me somewhat, and appease the onset of hunger over my journey home.
As I’m sectioning the fruit, I look out at the snow-covered picnic table on the rooftop patio and find a most gorgeous indigo cast to it and filling the atmosphere as far as I can see. I can’t see that far – the sky is heavily overcast – the Toronto skyline, the thing I usually look at from this window, has disappeared.
Whatever light is getting through those clouds to the landscape around me is reflecting on the layer of snow and creating this rich, velvety blue. The houses and trees below are black shadows against it; and the glow from the streetlights has muted to soft incandescent spots, looking as they might in a cheesy scene on a Christmas card.
I stand there and eat my orange and watch that colour, because I know it will be gone in a few minutes.
I love to watch how the light changes, particularly in early mornings and at twilight time. To see the subtle change in the light and the movement of the colours it paints is, to me, bearing witness to the magic of this planet. Stopping to watch the light change causes me to slow down my thoughts, and just exist in tandem with the rhythm of the universe for a few moments. And that’s as reviving as anything.