Unruly Sun

The last few days I have seen her full face, golden and beauteous. With the change of the clocks, the sun has chosen to make her re-entry into the pantheon of our days. Briefly today I stole out of the dark confines of the office to take in the light I saw dancing along the building facades outside the window. Staggering onto the street, I was struck by the brightness of the environment, the playful casting of shadows from the searing blaze of sunshine. It was so warm and so nurturing that I wanted to curl up in a supine position somewhere--anywhere-- and loll about like a cat soaking up the heat. Is it any wonder we are so drawn to the sun and its restorative powers? It was like having a blood transfusion; a breath of life. You want to throw your arms out like a solar panel and absorb its whole breadth in your body.

I've always been drawn to the sun. I love stepping out in daylight and having the light flood so bright that your eyes must screw closed tightly to shut out the painful intrusion of its brilliance. I love the creeping innocence of early morning sun as it insinuates itself against the skyline, slowly as if you won't notice it coming. I love the brazen indolence of the fiery setting sun with its broad red strokes which slowly recedes into the inky evening sky. I like to consider the course of each day as the sun's reoccurring life cycle--always bold, blatant and aggressive, briefly distracted by a tiresome but harmless cloud patch or a longer stretch of winter mire. When I lived in San Francisco, we knew the fog well. The sun tolerated this pesky relation and would let it have its moment of glory in the morning before she stepped up and burned the damp strains away for another day. She was a patient mistress.

Dusk for me is a poignant time. The way the light settles on the landscape as it falls from the sky is suited for reflection. If I have the moment to watch another day fold unto itself as I bear witness to it, I feel strangely moved. The world's turning, we retire, the light ceases and suddenly the world is cool, shaded in blues of the descending evening.

I love the moon, too, but God forbid I steal the sun's thunder here tonight. Suffice perhaps to quote Richard Brautigan with a quote I particularly favor:

The sun was like a huge 50-cent piece that someone had poured kerosene on and then had lit with a match, and said, "Here, hold this while I go get a newspaper," and put the coin in my hand, but never came back.