Every year, about this time — late July, early August — I’ll spot a yellow leaf tinged with red at the top of a tree, or on a branch that is bathed in the sun. “It’s not turning, it’s drying up from the heat,” I’ll tell myself. But you can’t un-ring that bell. I know that the summer has reached its magnificent peak and is starting to fade, ever so slowly. The Solstice, the high holy day of my year, was six weeks ago – summer is now halfway over, and we are moving towards the fall equinox. The mornings are darker now; my alarm comes before the sun peeks over the mountain and edges into my bathroom windows. Soon the bright white summer sun will mellow to liquid gold light that drenches the trees like spilled gold paint over the contours of the world.
I cling to it, the light. The laughing, blinding brilliance of July and the languid gilt of September and wan, struggling, pale December. I step into it, let it wash over me, warm my skin, dazzle my upturned eyes. The light keeps the darkness at bay. It calls out to the light that I forget lives inside me, reminds me that the spark is always there. The light is where I hide. The light is where I am home.