Here in this wooded place, winter is the only time I am able to see the sunrises and sunsets. As of this writing, the sky starts to lighten around 6 a.m., but it isn’t until well after 7 that the sun makes its presence once again known to me. And there is nothing quite like a clear sunrise after a string of gray sunless days to lift one’s spirits, especially at this cold time of year.
Sunrises here aren’t about that bright atomic orb that is the center of all life breaking free of the horizon and casting its light upon yet another day. Here, its glowing face is criss-crossed with all the branches and boughs that stand between me and it and that act much like diffusers, scattering that fiery intensity among the trees, causing it to shimmer with the slightest breeze or movement. The spectacle soon ends as it finally rises above the tree-line where it assumes its rightful place as the beacon of our days. It is at this time of year when it is the easiest to judge time by the sun’s position in the sky, for when it has sunk to the western tree-line at the end of another day, the hands on a conventional clock stand quite close to 4 p.m.
How sad that we have allowed such a chasm to open between us and something as basic and simple as telling time by the sun, and whenever I happen to walk out onto my friend’s back deck, I gently touch the sundial her late husband affixed to the railing in homage to that ancient practice.
Winter sunsets here are merely sunrises in reverse. As a tree-etched sun rose at dawn to signal the day’s start, so it sinks behind the trees at its end, its golden smile casting a thousand shafts of radiance through the winter-darkened woods. From this vantage point, however, something magical happens in the low pines that grow on that side of the hill. Their normally green needles sparkle as though sprinkled with gold-dust, a vision that too quickly fades, only to be repeated over and over each time I chance to look out my back door at around 4 on a cold but clear December afternoon.
And speaking of magic and things that sparkle, it is once again that time of year that even these woods seem aware of as an almost holy silence falls upon all that grows and moves here. Just down the road a piece, stores and streets are filled with light and wonder that have little to do with peace, serenity and a reverence for life. Amidst the laughter and good times, the piles of wrappings and ribbons, it’s so easy to forget where it all began. No matter what we choose to place our faith in, if anything, one thing is certain: Here, in these woods, the mystery of life endures, unaffected by all that is deemed necessary by those who would have us believe so.
And so from this little hill, I wish you all blessings, good fortune, happiness, breathtaking sunrises and visions of pine trees at sunset draped in gold.
— Rachel Lovejoy is a freelance writer living in Lyman. She can be reached via e-mail at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com
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