Resurrection light
Fall and the times when borders become thin
I love the arrival of fall—the leaves burnishing yellow, the honk of swans flying south from a stop at the nearby pond, cranes last week so close overhead they were as loud as a small plane. The feel of sunlight at a slant, the first coolness in the air. It all feels so noticeable. And kind of glorious.
Maybe why it’s so thrilling is that the changing lands are a reminder of both kairos and chronos time, no matter how much we’re taught to ignore the humming of the earth’s turn, or to measure each minute. It’s the feeling of something eternal at the same time that it’s changing swiftly each day. The shift into fall ties us to both the living and the dead—neighbors are out in parallel work, busy raking leaves and insulating hoses; and the dead once experienced this same turn towards winter, knew the same slanted light and noticed the first time their breath became visible in the chill of a cool morning.
As I write this, there is a full moon rising between the trees—familiar, and yet I …
