Photo Credit: Jerry Beil
Over FaceTime, I’m touring New York City apartments with Ryann. The experience is fast and wobbly, think Hollywood Studios Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster meets Blair Witch film school. The good news is that the property vignettes are short lived since the square footage is equivalent to a post office box and the cost akin to that of a nuclear weapon. All these factors leave me with cell phone induced dizzy bat syndrome – which the Google says may or may not be a real thing.
As options are evaluated and categorized into a spreadsheet, the no-way-she’s-living-there column includes: (1) assisted living, smelly old people-fragrance scary; (2) Freddy Krueger, stabbing in the middle of the night terrifying; (3) ridiculous, extra-loud elevator ding noisy; and (4) the studio with the shower in the closet. For real, there was a closet so small that one would have to reverse squedge through a door where a shower head and drain have been haphazardly installed for one’s bathing pleasure.
There have been dark, musty hallways and stained carpets and weed smoking door attendants. There was a penthouse with an amazing view of the Hudson and exposed brick, where the yearly cumulative rent exceeds the price paid for my first house. (Granted, the house was a crappy, saggy vinyl sided ranch, but I owned it.)
A few apartments have made it to the possible stage, and I’ve noticed the constant non-negotiable in these video conversations is Ryann’s pursuit for light. It rides shotgun on the list of preferences beside safety and dog friendly. “Look at these windows, Mom, the light is amazing.” And sure enough, from the tiny thumbnail on my phone screen, I can see sunshine spilling in through glass onto the floor, illuminating her potential space suitor with warmth and radiance. Her spirit basks in light, it’s how she’s designed.
Most days, we trade pictures of our sunrises and sunsets. Hers, an eleven-hour drive north from me, backdropped by cityscape, offers different hues than the outer banks of North Carolina. We are drawn to capture the inspiration of waltzing light, rising, and falling with the arrival and departure of the day.
It would be hard to determine if this is nature or nurture as though we share DNA, she was raised by a parent who flings open shades, doors, draperies, sunroofs, windows, and blinds with reckless abandon. Let there be light, all of it, all the time.
While we crave air, it’s the beams that ignite us and make us come alive. If we were flora, we’d be heliotropes, rotating bloom heads toward that which causes photosynthesis. The internet offers details about this reaction that I won’t plagiarize, not only because copying is wrong, but also because it’s too sciency for my style. The gist is that sun causes an energy reaction which promotes growth and repair. Dang, I love that.
The old, dead dudes had many a theory about light. There’s a camp that leans toward light not existing without darkness, and another swearing that darkness is created by the absence of light. These two flip the switch on and off, casting out the other in a chicken and egg kind of loop.
Einstein is quoted as saying, “Light travels faster than sound, that’s why some people appear bright until you hear them speak.” Oh, Albert. Both smart and funny. Al goes on to say a bunch of other things that exceed my pay grade. The essence is that light and darkness and reflection are all happening in the universe, in utilitarian and beautiful ways, should we be so inclined as to marvel at the wonder.
Socrates got philosophical about the sun being the “child of goodness.” He is reported to have believed that solar light brought intelligence and truth to those it touched. I bet Cratey would have loved a top down on the convertible, beach kind of day.
Perhaps my affection for luminosity stems from my childhood fear of the dark. I had a Holly Hobby night light that emitted a tiny glimmer, yet I begged for the hall light to be left on, as if a single bulb could ward off the monsters that menaced under my bed or more specifically in the linen closet by my bedroom. I was certain they were in there sharpening their talons and flossing their fangs, they just hid when my mom opened the door to dispel my fright.
My parents lack of tolerance and vigilance toward power bill reduction denied the hall light requisition, so I was left to overcome the physical darkness with my own internal light. It’s something I continue to work on as an adult, the crafty monsters still trekking a path and trying to find purchase in the closets of my mind and heart. The danger and potential power of darkness imagined is real and negative voices can convict us to a solitary confinement.
As Ryann searches for her next space, I’ve been contemplating light from many external and internal angles in an effort to catch a ride on the intensity of the rays. How I wish light for myself, my children, my husband, and for those around me, how I hope light upon the world – growth and repair.
My friend Jerry Beil took this photo. It captures the crux of this ramble in one image. The clouds, having formed a tower, reflect upon themselves in the water of Back Sound. In the distance rests Cape Lookout Lighthouse, my favorite icon of our county, serving as a beacon to those on the water and a comfort to those on the land, easing the burden of weathering a storm, with the sole (or maybe soul,) purpose of being the light.
In shining outward, it becomes the house of light, by just being itself.
Loved this.
Loved this. Threads of parent child connections as Ryann moves into adulthood still seeking your light.
Beautiful; light = growth and repair.