The Quality of the Remaining Light
“The French have a phrase for that part of the day when it is no longer daylight but not yet dark, L’Heure Bleue. In English, the Blue Hour. Photographers call it “the sweet hour” because of the quality of the light. That’s how I’ve come to think of this stage of life: bittersweet and beautiful because of the quality of the remaining light.”
Ours is one of the last cars to drive on to the ferry. We had crossed our fingers, hoping we would get on. I turn the engine off, take a deep breath and immediately my body sinks into a deep state of relaxation. This happens every time - that moment when I am island-bound, secure on the ferry. The ferry ride is 20-minutes long and often I will get out of my car and stand at the front of the boat, the ocean spray gently misting me as we head into the wind, listening to seagulls screeching and if we are lucky, enjoying the occasional eagle soaring overhead.
This lovely lady is a frequent visitor. I wonder if she has a fawn hidden in our tall grass?
We drive off the ferry, up the hill, through the village, and then along tree-lined roads to our house at the far end of the island. We only meet a handful of cars. I pull into the driveway and turn off the engine. There are no sounds of traffic, planes, or people at our island home, nestled between farms. But the air is far from silent. A gentle breeze rustles through the trees. The ravens living on our neighbour’s farm call to each other. Bees buzz happily as they drink from the pyracantha growing against the deck. Our island property is full of life, even more so after our 4-month absence, as we sheltered from the storm. Nature has reclaimed the land; the grass is hip-high, and our resident deer has made herself comfortable in this sanctuary, devoid of human beings. Young swallows test their wings as they swoop close by. Turkey vultures sit on the limbs of the Douglas fir, keeping a close eye on what is happening below. Sunlight filters through the trees - the Japanese have a word for this, komorebi, and I wonder why we don’t have an English word to describe this marvellous phenomenon.
In recent years, I have begun to feel an affinity with nature that parallels my journey through life. I have always loved being outdoors – camping, canoeing, hiking, and time spent gardening or sitting in the shade with a good book and a glass of wine. I am not an environmentalist; I am concerned about climate change but not an activist; and while I am worry about a declining bird population, I still let my cat go outside. I do not say this proudly; in fact, at times, I am ashamed that I have not taken our natural world more seriously. I am only writing this to share with you that, while I have been passionate about various causes over my lifetime, the environment has not been one of those causes. However, I do find comfort in knowing that life, and particularly the process of aging, is so deeply interwoven with our natural world.
Lately, it is the colours of nature that remind me that my future spans less time than the accumulation of my past years. Kathleen Montgomery, in her book, Landscapes of Spirituality and Aging, writes, “the French have a phrase for that part of the day when it is no longer daylight but not yet dark, L’Heure Bleue. Photographers call it ‘the sweet hour’ because of the quality of the light. That’s how I’ve come to think of this stage of life: bittersweet and beautiful because of the quality of the remaining light.”
The quality of that light, just before sunset, fills me with a deep feeling of contentment. I enjoy this time of day most when I am walking along the river or sitting on the deck of our island home. It is a time of reflection for me, a time to think about the day I am putting to rest, as well as a time to appreciate a life well lived.
It is that time of day when the sunset is imminent. And every day I am hopeful that the sunset will be brilliant before it fades over the horizon. In a similar vein, I hope I will be blessed with many years so that I can also spread a brilliant glow.
“I like being old because the view from the brink is striking, a full panorama of my life —and a bracing breeze awakens me to new ways of understanding my own past, present, and future”. Parker J. Palmer penned these words at the age of 80, shortly before the release of his book, On the Brink of Everything. I don’t consider myself old and haven’t climbed high enough yet to see the full panorama of my life. But as I begin the steep climb to the brink, the breeze is beginning to catch my hair and the stirrings of a deeper understanding of my past, present and future is starting to take root.