Diurnal and Nocturnal Impressions

Some writing mined and revised from my handwritten journal. Recently, I am capturing impressions of the hours and seasons. It is writing practice. It is also one of the ways that I pray. 

Before the storm: The charcoaled bellies of the clouds hang low. May midnight thunder rumble.

After the storm: All the crows and l'il brown birds pecking the rain-drenched ground! There is food to be found.

Spring, midmorning: The breeze is blowing through the trees, now lush with leaf and blossom. With the daylight streaming through the branches, dappled patterns play across the ground: a slow shimmering of shadow and sun. It is not a rare effect, but I have loved this dance of dark and bright, this gift of leaf and wind, since girlhood.

I linger in this moment. Like the tiny insects that hover a few feet above the ground, I remain there—floating, quivering—savoring the brief sweetness of the season.

*     *     *     *     *     *    

Summer, first unmasked walk through the neighborhood after a year of pandemic: 

It is twilight, the hour of rose-hued horizon and moon-flowering sky. I am lucky to live in a place that is often quiet at dusk, with paths largely deserted. I relish the evening chill on my lips; my unshackled nose takes in the spice of blooms that open when the day dims down.

How I have missed these walks. How I have longed for that moment as the light pauses before revealing its primal aura—oh liminal hour of celestial presence—when planets appear and owls’ wings unfurl. 

Somehow, hope retrieves me at this hour. Somehow, possibility returns. Of course, I am familiar with the sleight-of-hand that low light plays – softening the edges, warming the coolness, inviting invisible crickets. It does not matter. The unbraided edges of dreams can now trickle in through my re-opened heart and loosen the rigidities of the day. Soon, the sleep-breathing of mammals sweetens the air. Soon, the cocoon of night wraps us in its luminous expanse and lifts us out of the callousness of the day.