The sun is shifting, I’ll have you know.
Stepping outside in early morning light and then, quickly, I am stepping back in: for slippers or a sweater. Tea or coffee in a mug helps set the scene and a few moments with my notebook will complete it.
On morning walks to school, chilled baby toes dangling behind my back are a reminder of socks, shoes, silly things I’ve long forgotten.
Throughout the year, I have seen our play spots move in response to the strong sunshine, for some scant months we huddle in our south facing windows and, for the rest of time, we duck away and seek cover. Our Ra is powerful.
For what feels like forever now, we have been in residence on the back patio, which is protected overhead by sunshade and grape vines. Peeks of deep blue when the hammock swings out or a tear in the fabric is overhead. It looks violet-y otherwise to stare through such fabric. I hang fabrics along the western side’s laundry line to block out the horizontal rays of evening and we judge outdoor dinner plans on whether our eyes will be safe from the glare.
Today, I walk back towards this cool canopy from the sunny green outside and notice the deep line of shade where the house’s shadow falls across the patio. It was not there last I looked and suddenly one third of the space is safely shaded, no matter the hour.
Clouds are building and with an unexpected chill, I walk inside. The sun shines on a mere bit of floor. It looks so much like winter’s light and I want to lie there in the warm nest of it.
Yesterday, Caleb walked purposefully to such a sunlit rectangle and threw himself upon it, laughing as if he’d found a life raft or perhaps caught the golden light at last.
This is the change of seasons that I feel. Of course, it happens every year. King Winter is breathing down our necks now. Soon, yellow gold will shine back from the mountains demarking the Aspen stands of the forest and we will make our way to bask in that good light.