Outside the sun shines on still-green grass while glistening spider webs rock in a gentle breeze. Dead, prickly flower heads bob on brown stems while clusters of rust-colored oak leaves rattle against the bare branches of neighboring trees.
Even the indoor plants oppose each other in stark contrast. My green succulents proudly lean their round petals toward the window while my houseplants lay limp, trailing their vines over ceramic pots; clearly, life has become too hard to bear in an upright position.
The great outdoors beckons, though I know perfectly well that the air has grown frigid. I’ll take my daily jaunt along the harvested field next to the woods at twilight—the most honest time of the day—when shadows play with the lingering light rays. Sunshine makes grand promises and offers a glorious spectrum, but inevitably night returns and covers all with the equality of darkness.
Some of the most powerful writers I know contrast bright humanity with our dark side. I always wondered about that. I need to be inspired, enriched, offered a crumb of hope in a mottled world. I can’t live on cigarette butts and broken glass. Turning from divorce and disfunction, cancer and casualties, abuse and absurdities, toward honest marriages, healthy lives, and baby hugs make each sunrise an embrace of possibilities. Yet, no matter how much I value daylight, night still falls. The price of sanity is to accept the reality of good and evil, happiness and misery.
That is probably why I enjoy twilight. It’s the cross over, the time between, the slow-down after a busy day, reminding me that I’m not all-powerful, all-seeing, all-anything. After attending to various matters from decoding modern calculators to figuring out (yet again!) why the toaster won’t toast on one side, I reflect and pray on matters that really matter. My friend’s young daughter who has been having epileptic seizures, an elderly lady’s nephew who fell and broke his back, a recent widow who is trying to figure out where to bury his wife’s ashes, two cases of abused trust, and a country so divided that conversations break down and pointed accusations, like blowing ash, are all that’s left of the fire that used to unite us.
Night is a great equalizer. I see why notable writers dare to tread on such sacred, painful ground. None of us live in continual daylight. No one knows all or sees all. Charging ahead in the darkness leads to dangerous falls.
The sun just dropped behind the horizon and the late-autumn trees appear stark against the pale, fading light. I walk along the uneven field, watching each step, and slow my mind and my heart to ponder and pray. Night falls on harvested fields and evergreens alike.
I head home, following the light of ancient stars, knowing the sun will rise on a new day. Rested and comforted by hope for a future I cannot yet see, I will stand and meet it.