The Weakening Eye of Day
The day before yesterday was a holiday. My husband went to work, to have this Friday off. It was sunny. There were some chores to do, and lunch to make, but then I was free. So I planned my afternoon to do some pastel painting, and to go for a drive with my camera.
Lunch over, I sit and peruse Facebook while I make my digestion before picking up the kitchen. Two o'clock. It's sunny and warm outside. I go outside to stand in the sun for a few minutes. I come back in. I do the dishes, clean off the countertops and table, sit back down a couple of minutes. I debate which to do first, whether paint or go out. This is the best time to paint, with more natural light. I dither. I go back out for a minute. The sun is starting its downward trend, shifting behind the barn roof. I go back in. I do a little painting. It's horrible. I decide to go out for a drive. The sun is now too low. If I drive in a westerly direction I'll be blinded. It's four o'clock. Time to call it a day. I go back in, read, spend time on the computer, play with my cats. It's six o'clock. Twilight. So much for the holiday.
I can't help but compare these days with those in June. At four o'clock on a June day, I still have hours and hours before me of daylight. I can paint, go for a drive, do household chores I keep putting off, read, play with my cats, sit at the computer, do some gardening, sit in the sun, dither with my camera, or just sit and look at the moving shadows on the wall while I twiddle my thumbs. Whereas, four o'clock on a December day infuses a sense of hurry! hurry! with its lengthening of already long shadows, and a promise of an early night.
Six months to go. Six long months of darkness, with a continuous lightening of hope until June.
Lunch over, I sit and peruse Facebook while I make my digestion before picking up the kitchen. Two o'clock. It's sunny and warm outside. I go outside to stand in the sun for a few minutes. I come back in. I do the dishes, clean off the countertops and table, sit back down a couple of minutes. I debate which to do first, whether paint or go out. This is the best time to paint, with more natural light. I dither. I go back out for a minute. The sun is starting its downward trend, shifting behind the barn roof. I go back in. I do a little painting. It's horrible. I decide to go out for a drive. The sun is now too low. If I drive in a westerly direction I'll be blinded. It's four o'clock. Time to call it a day. I go back in, read, spend time on the computer, play with my cats. It's six o'clock. Twilight. So much for the holiday.
I can't help but compare these days with those in June. At four o'clock on a June day, I still have hours and hours before me of daylight. I can paint, go for a drive, do household chores I keep putting off, read, play with my cats, sit at the computer, do some gardening, sit in the sun, dither with my camera, or just sit and look at the moving shadows on the wall while I twiddle my thumbs. Whereas, four o'clock on a December day infuses a sense of hurry! hurry! with its lengthening of already long shadows, and a promise of an early night.
Six months to go. Six long months of darkness, with a continuous lightening of hope until June.
I love the dark days and I love the solstice that starts to bring back the light and I love the long summer nights. I love it all, but then I'm greedy.
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