It’s an achingly bright day. Looking out the window, my eyes are skewered by sunlight. Brilliant shafts seem pierce through my eyes and into my brain. My temples pulse and throb, and I drop my eyes. Too much — it’s too much for my pupils, which have been focused on indoor sights since 5 a.m. The headache I was hoping I’d escape today suddenly surges up, going from a “2” to a “6” in a matter of seconds. I say a little prayer that the ache will subside, then I abandon that hope. Clinging to that faint promise in the past has wasted many a day for me.
I’ve had my back to the windows for hours, now, and it’s hard to believe that after days of murky skies we could have this much light, this early in the day. But there it is — sunlight. A lot of it.
The moon last night was wild and full, bathing every inch of open space with rich, silver light. And now the sun has taken over — even brighter. The clouds of yesterday have given way to a pale blue, cloudless sky, midwinter shadows of bare trees stretching across the space filled by moonlight only 6 hours before.
I rest my warm wrists on the cool edge of my laptop. I’ve been writing since 6 a.m., and after more than two hours of intense focus, I’m due for a break. I feel good. I’ve had some thoughts and insights that made sense to me, but I don’t want to overdo it.
I need a walk. Not a long ramble through the woods, over hill and dale, but a quick jaunt down the road and back. Just enough to stir the blood. Just enough to warm me up. Sitting for hours at a time makes me feel sluggish and cold, and it’s too nice a day to feel that way for long.
I look up at the window again, squinting my eyes slightly to keep the spears of light from skewering me like before. After a few moments, my gaze acclimates. I catch sight of my neighbor doing some yardwork, and the rattle and clank of his tools carries across the way on a brisk wind that tugs and pulls playfully at the tops of the trees. Leftover leaves are at last tugged from the branches of bare oaks and maples, the light roughness of their scuttles across pavement just barely audible above the sound of the wind and my neighbor’s rattling ladder.
I look back at my laptop and click the “save” icon, watching it flash, then turn grey. That means my save was successful. Another few clicks, and the machine is hibernating till I return.
From my walk.
Out in the bright light of day.