Chasing the Light
by Sarah May
CHASING THE LIGHT
The winter sky is gray and dreary, but on the rare occasion the sky is clear, the pink rays emitted from a sun bidding us farewell from her brief January appearance are caught by the snow-covered mountains, turning the white blanket draped over the mountainside into a soft warm blush pink comforter. Something about the pop of pink in a winter void of color causes me to pause. As if the sun and mountains completed a yoga class. The mountains whisper, “The light in me sees the light in you,” to the setting sun in the westward sky. She bows her head in acknowledgment as the last of her rays fade away.
Life in the West teaches one to read the sky.
Sizing up rain clouds in the distance, knowing their dance patterns and times of arrival in the summer. Spotting the little dipper in the evening sky and knowing the full harvest moon in October is always the best full moon of the year. There are no street lights for navigation on these old dirt roads. Only the stars lead you home.
As the wildflowers bloom after a long winter’s nap, they tilt their necks towards the sun as they dot the hillside. The delicate petals fully expand, absorbing every ounce of sunlight, in hopes of showing off their purple and yellow pedals for a few fleeting weeks of summer magic.
One summer evening, I was driving home as the bright cobalt blue sky was beginning to fade. The glowing yellow sunbeams backlit the mountains as if they were on display in an art museum. My instincts knew this was going to be a good sunset.
As I approached the turn onto my street, I decided to keep chasing the light.
I drove a few miles past my house and turned down the curvy road leading me to a lake tucked away in the forest. Eager to reach my destination before the show was over.
I pulled into the parking lot next to the water, the last of the fishermen packed away their gear and I found a lakeside spot to watch the symphony about to unfold above me.
The sky was painted light blue. The clouds, swirls of thin white brush strokes. The tall green pines stretched up into the clouds, connecting the dirt of the earth to the unrestricted sky above.
The sun lowered, the white airy brush strokes turned peach, and the lake now free of summer revelry, a glass mirror reflecting the art above. The earth was alive with summer magic.
As the day faded away, I sat with my feet in the cool water on the shoreline, the peach turned into bright orange. Overpowering the last of the blue sky. The water appeared to be on fire with every ripple as it reflected the clouds. Every few minutes I found myself taking in a new color palate. The sunset is no longer a painting, but a fully alive orchestra. Every element of nature plays its part.
The birds swooped in and out, on the hunt for supper. The wind swished between the pines as the ever-delicate ripple pulsed through the still water. The subtle sound of the water cresting into the shoreline as if it were the lead violin in the symphony and setting the pace for the others to follow.
A moment to sit and be still.
To breathe.
A moment to remember my small presence here on earth.
My home faces south, leaving me unable to bask in the glow of sunrises and sunsets, but over the years I have learned to read the light as it reflects off the houses across the street. I tilt my head out the window as if I were a wildflower, arching to soak up the sun whenever I see the magical golden glow across the street.
On the day my Grandfather passed away, the sunrise was nothing short of trumpets blaring to welcome him home. Up early holding vigil, I walked far enough down the road to take in the sunrise. The neon orange clouds welcomed the day with the dark outline of the distant mountains in the backdrop. The stark contrast of light and dark is an omen for the day to come.
I stood with my feet anchored in the ground and took in the moment as my heart shattered with grief and the sun slowly ushered in the day. The neon orange faded to pink, then white as the sun and clouds took their places in the sky. With a deep inhale, I filled my lungs with crisp fall morning air as the grief settled in my soul.
On the dreary rainy spring day when my mom called to tell me our long-time family friend was in his final weeks, months if we were lucky, a neon rainbow streaked the sky. I sat on my porch in my sadness for the grief that was to come as the raindrops splashed onto the ground and saw God’s kindness arched above in a colorful rainbow.
How kind I thought. For Him to bless me with sunrises and rainbows on my lowest of days.
Some days I am the light, and others, it is here to be chased. To tilt and face the light ever just so. To take in its magic and all it has to offer. It is in the darkness where light wins. It is the source of all that is life. Where there is no light, there is no life. This much I know to be true.
So I chase the light.
SARAH MAY
Sarah May is a Georgia peach who relocated to Montana in a search of life with depth. Her southern storytelling infuses her writings inspired by the rocky mountain landscapes she now calls home. Her life has been deeply shaped by both deep sorrow and pure joy. She lives life open handed and doesn’t shy away from adventure. She spends her winters skiing down mountains all while longing for the warm apple cider donuts from her youth. You can find her on Instagram @thesarahemay or at her Substack: https://www.semay22.substack.com