Chasing the Light
Komorebi, Change, and the Hope Between Seasons
A thread of summer’s spirit still hangs on despite the closing of my house’s back porch last month—a screened-in room open from Mother’s Day to just before Halloween. My husband and I are always delighted to have an “extra” room added to our small cottage house as we perch there to enjoy summer’s long hours.
But too soon, fall had muscled her way in, and an unexpected taste of winter settled on the palate with a recent covering of snow dressed in below-freezing temperatures.
I think of fall in terms of stages.
At the first sign of a changing season, green fades into yellow. Next, the peaking of colors in vibrancy of orange and red and deep burgundy. Until the last stage, like the final scene in a drama, the big reveal of forest architecture, the bones of each tree naked and falling into deep slumber. After the climax of summer, a year’s story is resolving. Mother Nature gets ready for winter as a closing curtain to the year’s end.
“No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.” -John Donne
September appeared to be a time when change in the natural world was becoming apparent, green fading from the flora’s coats, and petals of red and yellow and purple drifting gently to the parched earth. The month hinted at less daylight with a wavering sun.
On one October walk along a shaded path through a nearby woods, I stopped to have a look through the trees to bright illumination in the distance. I thought about how my perspective of the natural world had shifted from viewing a late summer landscape close to looking at space beyond.
As shadows grow, time for observation.
It feels like it was just yesterday when the early morning sun lifted quickly over the horizon, rousing me from morning sleep to be greeted by a lighted glow in the room. Before the end of daylight savings time, I struggled to see any hint of light through the trees; the room remained dark into early morning. I realized how I depended on the light to start my day.
And now, as I am operating on standard time, I look upon light with new meaning, awakening with it.
Light awakens our spirits, signals the trees’ direction, nourishes leaves in photosynthesis, and offers flowers security in letting go of their tight buds.
“The thinnest yellow light of November is more warming and exhilarating than any wine they tell of.” -Henry David Thoreau
Fall is a symbolic season as it mirrors the transitions in our own lives. It calls for us to embrace the shifts, to let go of what we feel may no longer be best for us and to hold the beauty in the temporariness of life.
On a November morning walk at dawn, I was hopeful for the sky to soon illuminate and its shine to pierce through the forest. And when it did, the sun’s lower angle slipped lower through the trees’ limbs, shaking leaves free from the chilled breezes. Shadows followed me, and seemingly more tree canopies brightened, spreading a wide scope of light through the forest. I couldn’t help but stop and see myself in silhouette. The shadows added a bit of drama, an artistic note.
There is a Japanese word for this. Komorebi.
Actually, it’s not a word, but a feeling that describes the light as it plays on trees, striking them just so. One can be in awe of the sight, feeling as if you captured a unique moment when you were in the right place at the right time. The play of scattered light can change an uninspiring forest into an inspiring, almost meditational rare moment. The change in light and how it filters through trees appears playful, a tango among the leaves.
Perhaps fall is also nature’s way of teaching us to look ahead, to see that there is light beyond, to not be complacent, but to keep moving forward. To always keep reaching despite the loss of a strong sun from the earth’s angle.
Light gives us hope, that in the dark before dawn, when a glowing halo from below a horizon elevates, you can anticipate moments of komorebi, of tranquility and peace.
And when we can be filled with the vision of dancing light.
“November — the last month of autumn, but the beginning of a new adventure; time to take risks and do the unexpected.” -F. Scott Fitzgerald
“No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, no fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds — November!” -Thomas Hood
And now for a newsy bit:
Newly released Mercy Town, is now a double-award winner!
For fans of Ann Patchett and Louise Erdrich, a contemporary women’s fiction novel set in northern Wisconsin about one grief-stricken family’s journey toward redemption and forgiveness in a rural town divided by the past.
Links to your favorite retailers here.
THANK YOU for reading! and for supporting my work.
This is beautiful Nancy. I’m a light chaser and this reflection was so rich. Can’t wait to read Mercy Town.
Even though I have been an empty nester for 50+ years, I am still tied to a school schedule and think of fall as a new beginning, time to start fresh.
One winter I took a class at the Botanic Garden on how to identify trees in winter, i.e. without the distraction of leaves. Whole new way to appreciate a forest.
AND, congratulation on Mercy Town!