Today, I celebrate the return of the sun. As a symbol of this celebration, I look no further than the doorknob to my bedroom. Let me explain.
Today, the sun rises at 8:00 a.m. and sets at 4:15 p.m. This is approximately 4 seconds more daylight than we had yesterday. This is a big deal, especially when the sun is as scarce as it is around here. Although, I have to admit that, lately, the sun has been hanging around quite a bit. I am grateful for this in so many ways. Until I look too closely. Until I notice the dust bunnies pooling and eddying underneath my sofa. Until I see the haze on the outsides of my windows. Until I notice the cat hair flying through the air with the greatest of ease. The sun (literally) shines a light on these subtleties, and reminds me of what a casual housekeeper I tend to be.
But at this time of year, the sun also does some amazing things. The angle of repose is so low that beams of light shoot straight through my kitchen, and highlight things such as crystal doorknobs (above). The beams of light also land on my sun catchers just so, sending explosions of rainbows throughout whatever room they're in. That doesn't happen in the summer, when the sun is relentless and attacking me straight from above, taunting me at 4:00 a.m. and not relenting until nearly 11:00 at "night."
You see, here's my dirty little secret: I like a softer, gentler sun. I like a sun with latitude. I like a sun that let's me know it's there, but by whispering, not shouting. And here's another little secret: I like dark and stormy days. The kinds of days where it's best just to sit tight, brew some tea, grab a book, and put off whatever needs to be done until the next day. I like the coziness of it all. No pressure.
It's a good thing that I live where I do, because I get to have the kind of weather I want--the gentle winter sun, the dark and stormy days, and rarely a day above 80 degrees. It's kind of like what I imagine living on the Irish coast would be like (with perhaps a little less charm and no national health care).
So while I welcome the sun, illuminating my doorknobs and pointing out my casual housekeeping, I need time to prepare--time to prepare for the cacophony of light that is to come. Give me this time to heal. Then bring it on...
