In winter, though the quantity of the light is small, I try to appreciate the quality of the light. Watery, oh so soft, diffused, horizontal. The pink blush of a frosty morning. Unless I wake at 4 or 5am, I don’t get to see this rare, ephemeral light in Summer. So, in Winter, I try to hold it in my eyes, like a precious object. I try to store it in my mind’s eye, absorb it into my body through my skin. Breathe it in.
Living on the scattered edge of a northern continent and having lived on small but exquisite amounts of light through the Winter, it comes as something of a shock, usually one day in February, when I can actually feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. Something like a primal opening occurs in my soul, as I realise I’ve been living on the shadows, not the reality.
How beautiful to really feel the sun, but also how precious to have looked at it’s reflection all Winter long.