Magic Light
Sunset. Dusk. Twilight. (No, not the SMeyers version.) That period of time when our sun is below the horizon in relationship to the viewer and the light from our nearest star can still be seen in a last ditch effort to illuminate our world. It's my favourite time of day and it has not set time.
Some say that portals between dimensions are opened at times like this--when there is a blurring of now and then, here and there. I've always called it Magic Light Time. When the blinding brightness of the Sun mellows to a rich orange, then melon, then rose, to blush into purple. All that the light is cast upon is tranformed. The Canyon of Heros becomes cast in bronze, edifices so brilliant that they become statues of themselves. Even the plain white walls of my home are transformed into squares of copper, waiting for our shadows to pass through and create a momentary work of art. At these times, I would lift my infant up and show her the world metamorphosed into something precious.
It's probably the only happy memory that my ex- has of our family; me holding up our daughter on the balcony, showing her the sunset over Hudson Bay, reflecting off of the Twin Towers, glinting off of the Verrazano Bridge.
So, this evening, when my teen says to me in passing, "It's Magic Light Time," I stop to reflect the orange light resting on the wall.
Life is magical, indeed.
Some say that portals between dimensions are opened at times like this--when there is a blurring of now and then, here and there. I've always called it Magic Light Time. When the blinding brightness of the Sun mellows to a rich orange, then melon, then rose, to blush into purple. All that the light is cast upon is tranformed. The Canyon of Heros becomes cast in bronze, edifices so brilliant that they become statues of themselves. Even the plain white walls of my home are transformed into squares of copper, waiting for our shadows to pass through and create a momentary work of art. At these times, I would lift my infant up and show her the world metamorphosed into something precious.
It's probably the only happy memory that my ex- has of our family; me holding up our daughter on the balcony, showing her the sunset over Hudson Bay, reflecting off of the Twin Towers, glinting off of the Verrazano Bridge.
So, this evening, when my teen says to me in passing, "It's Magic Light Time," I stop to reflect the orange light resting on the wall.
Life is magical, indeed.