A Walker in the Suburbs

I was out early this morning and when I drove back into our neighborhood the sun was slanting through the trees and filling our street with light. I wonder why I find this so fetching. Is it because the sunshine is heaven-sent? Because it is grandiose, like a Bierstadt painting?

I have an amateurish meterological explanation for this phenomenon. The air is filled with moisture from last night’s downpour and the sunlight bounces off the water molecules in the air. Or something like that.

But what to make, then, of how it strikes my soul, of the philosophical explanation? Seeing our landscape all lit with light comforts me. It fills me with awe at the beauty of nature, and it reminds me that it is still summer — insect-humming, humidity-stoked, green-leafed summer. And I am glad of it.

One of the most important housekeeping tricks I’ve taught my daughters is to keep the lights low. Makes up for a multitude of sins. But I don’t do this just to hide the dirt. I feel more relaxed and comfortable when I’m not sitting in a pool of harsh light. At home I run around snapping off the overheads and turning on small lamps. At the office I shun institutional florescence for incandescent alternatives.

I was thinking of all this the other day while riding Metro. The platforms are so dim that it’s difficult to read small print when I’m waiting for the train. But I’m grateful for the perpetual twilight. How much worse it would be to stand shoulder to shoulder in a harsh glare. How much calmer and more inconspicuous I feel waiting in the darkness.

This morning I dashed outside early because I wanted to walk in time to the Strauss waltz I heard on the radio. Once out, though, I remembered why early morning was once my favorite time to walk. I strolled sans sunglasses, hoping that more of the rays would penetrate my pupils, reset my biological clock, stabilize my mood and all that other good stuff. But the morning light did something much more fundamental. It lifted my spirit.