Seconds of Light

Hello Friends,

When my family moved north from the SF Bay Area to Portland, Oregon, I expected changes. The watershed and San Andreas fault line had been part of my blood and breath for thirty years. I felt married to that land. To that place.

Despite loving so much about Portland upon arrival—all the trees!—there was much that I missed about Oakland. Berkeley. San Francisco. Mostly, I missed the people and the culture. But I also missed the sun on the bay, and the breeze off the ocean. And the rolling hills.

But all things change, right?

The thing I had not expected from the change, was how different the light is further north. And not simply the quality of light, but the length of days. Summer days are longer here. Winter days are very, very short. Those first winters were a struggle. Each year, I eagerly awaited Solstice, only to be crushed by the discovery that sunrise still grew later each day until some mysterious tipping point my animal nature did not comprehend… and that light did not shift by minutes, but by seconds.

Those increased seconds of light are hard to notice. But that does not mean they aren’t present.

What I’m learning after almost six years here is that quiet is good. Darkness is good. Slowing down is healthy. I’ve adjusted my expectations around light and time, and around myself. I can still be “productive” while also resting more during the dark months. I’ve learned to plan differently for December through February, to schedule in more spaciousness and breathing room.

I’ve also learned that just because April will come, that doesn’t mean the skies won’t be black with torrential rain.

I’m writing this four days after Winter Solstice here in the northern hemisphere, a warm cup of tea at my side. And despite the late sunrise, I’m appreciating the seconds of increasing light, just as I appreciate the seconds of each breath. Each heartbeat. Each eye blink.

We humans measure time. Time also measures us. So I contemplate that relationship with time and light, with day and night.

I once read about the way ancient Egyptians measured time. Each day and night had the same number of hours, but the length of the hours changed, depending on the season and how much light there was in the sky.

That’s when it struck me: Time breathes. Days inhale and seasons exhale.  Just as we do.

So here I am today, breathing with you. Breathing with time. Breathing with the slow return of light.

Feeling grateful for it all.

many blessings — Thorn

The book where I read about the Egyptian measurement of days was Jeremy Naydler’s “Temple of the Cosmos.”