Season of Light

IMG_4754[Parliament Of Wolves]

It has arrived, the light I mean; daylight savings is a glorious time.  It means I can head out at six o’clock with the dogs to run or walk on the mountain while that amazing 24k light is pouring itself out heavily on the earth, molten and redemptive.  If it wasn’t so beautiful, I would feel affronted, or if I was wicked in my soul I would feel found out by it.  It’s that kind of light.  I know the light aims to bless, so I receive it as such; take up the wild rush of it as though I am drinking it, savage with thirst– I drink it up like a wild woman.

We are already hurtling towards the summer solstice.  Night is in decay while day grows robust and long.  I never get tired of these big shifts!  They’re tremendously energizing.  Just when I think I have nothing left to give our planet begins to tilt in a new direction and I feel it with every bone in my body, even the tiny bones, the anvils and stirrups in my ears seem to ring with the heaven of it all.

I sat with the dogs in the sagebrush tonight, simply sat, alone and happy as the sun did its setting and night began to take back the sky.  The dogs were digging for voles, running wild and kicking the dust off their heels.  I can’t remember thinking about anything important, I was more concerned with simply laying with the land and taking it in with my senses.

I spent most of my day at the computer, tippity tapping with my blunt little fingertips, editing images, submitting this and that.  It was a productive day, though I have nothing truly tangible to show for my time and effort.

I suppose that’s why I just sat there in the sun and sage tonight.  More often than not, I feel ruined by technology — dumbed and dulled by it.  Sitting out in the dirt and wind helps me to take myself back and allows for an indwelling of the senses which is where true aliveness resides for me.


Life is beginning to get crazy here.  The fire season always makes everything crazy.  Right about now is when I buckle up and hold on tight.  There’s nothing that can be done about the insanity of pre-season.  It must be so easy for people, for couples, who live near the base they work out of, but for us, it’s complete chaos from now until we arrive in the Methow Valley.

I am finding that this season will take more intention and attention from us which is difficult when plans have to be made last minute (that’s just how fire is, terribly last minute).  How do you prepare to sell a house and move your life and a small business to a different state in an Airstream trailer when everything is so darn last minute?  I don’t know how we do it.  All our important dates are laid out like glass shards in dirt, janky and hazardous, prone to shifting in the breeze.  We’re trying to get a grip, but we don’t know on what.  We’re all cut up by attempting to set it in order.

If I could change anything about this fire life of ours, I would make things less last minute.  It’s my only true complaint. I never feel like I get to say goodbye.  Hellos catch me off guard.  My very self teeters wildly for months on end.  I’m tippy with the undependable nature of wildfire and everything that comes with it.

Despite all the impending chaos, I am going to have a completely ridiculous day in the studio tomorrow after a little time off and a few days of concentrated computing.  I can feel it in my bones.  Something good is coming.  The very thought of it makes me stand up straighter, with my palms lifted to the sky, ready to receive and ready to give until I’m all gived out.

Buckle up, buttercups.  It is the season of light.


:::Post Scriptus:::

Robbie is coming home on Monday.  He’s been away six weeks.  I am happy.  I am happy!

IMG_4700 IMG_4730

IMG_1797IMG_1778I’ve been driven to the light lately.  You can find me winding my way up the East bench in the evenings; to get closer to the sky, to catch some of that gold for myself, to see the West bench rise foot by foot to unabashedly meet my gaze.  I see the way the sun stumbles towards the distant sea, magnanimously, giving up the sky to the silence of the moon and stars.  I see the way the last ribbons of day stream down through the softness of the Portneuf Valley peaks — tributaries of a greater whole.  I see these things and I wonder why can’t we all move through life as directly and flawlessly as light.

Golden hour is romantic.  I am in danger of forgetting the nature of light which is as two sided as any human.  It is gentle now, here under the nearing of night, beneath the weak sky of winter, but I have felt it burn.  I have seen it crack stone in two.  Is there anything, here on Earth, that is pure, unerring strength?  Is there anything free of the blessing and curse of power and weakness?  Must we all be such a wild blend?


In the evening light, there is the precious moment when the sagebrush and bunch grasses are set afire, gently at first, more raucous by the moment, until all things are stained by day, light bearing, gleaming, luminous with the sacraments of dust and crumbling starlight.

If this ancient light is this bright, how much brighter is new light?  How could anyone stand to look into the childish face of a star?

I open my vest, unbutton the top of my cardigan and denim shirt; I expose the pale place in the center of my chest that ripples with sinew and bone when I make my arms into wings.  I stand like that, with my face skyward, and I feel the light move in chattering runnels into the center of me, the most awake part of me.  I stand like that, with the wind in my face, with the final warmth of day pooling like a trustworthy foundation at my feet, purring like a cat.  I stand like that until my fingers turn cold, the sun flares, the light twitches, fades, crumples and the day plunges away.