Weird and Wonderful Things Happen With Winter Light
I am not naturally an early riser, but recently I woke before light and went downstairs to write in my little north-facing study. As the light of dawn began to ease away the darkness my eye was drawn to the window. And then—oh the wonder of it—the forest was cast in the most subtle shade of deep magenta, barely there, and enchanting all the more for its ephemerality. Excited, I dashed up the stairs to the eastern-facing deck outside my bedroom. And yes! In the still deep blue of dawn, a cloud was catching light from the Sun, cresting the horizon to the east perhaps hundreds of miles away––or perhaps the cloud was catching light from clouds hundreds of miles away lit by the still unrisen Sun (a double reflection), and then casting that light into the forest. (I found an interesting link that explores this phenomenon, which I am posting below.)
It was a little piece of magic, easily explained by science, of course. But in my worldview, we are enmeshed in a universe where everything is endowed with consciousness. That rare magenta light urged me to leap from myself, to ask questions: what is the quality of this light? What consciousness is it endowed with that I can perceive?
For me, the perception that light has consciousness is something I experienced first as a child, quite simply because I liked to look at the stars. And one night, gazing up into the cosmos and considering the magnitude of the light I was looking at—how old it might be, and how it was now falling into my eyes, into my body—well—I had an experience of the consciousness of the starlight.
It was a gift, for sure. But also, a threshold easily made. When something beautiful calls our attention, when we open ourselves up with wonder, there is a merging, an experience of unity that lives in us, like a dream, or a song. A direct experience of the unity of consciousness.
On my best days, I catch a little glimmer of that, and it is enough.
