I’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.
