Raining furiously at 10:30 a.m. and so dark that I have the
lights on in order to see what I am writing.
Interestingly, I just read a piece
from J. Ruth Gendler’s Changing Light: “Light spills over, light breaks
through, light drenches us as thoroughly as rain. I listen eagerly as
perceptive artists talk about kinds of light. Drawing with lines of light.
Light bites into things. Light hits the Pacific and strikes off the ocean
waters. Walking in the redwood fog, everything is lit from within. Over my desk
three words: ‘Light determines form.’ We are all described by light. Defined by
light. Outlined by light.” Rain is pelting the skylight and the street lights
just came on. As I look beyond the window the trees are lit from within, the
spring leaves glowing with unstoppable awakening. Slender green blades of grass
pulled upward by gray light even as the heavy drops hit upon them. I feel dull
inside as the cleansing water tempts me into the light of its April