Part 1: Even the Word Itself
Let there be light and there was light
Light of my life
Light my way
Light my fire
Light at the end of the tunnel
Starlight
Candlelight
Twilight
Moonlight
First Light
Dawning of the Light
Lightning bug
Porch Light
Stop Light
Light of the world
Never use lite.
Part 2: Still in Awe of the Light
Four years old, on the swing in the park. The chain I am holding on to catches the sun at the same angle each time I rise. Just so high and the light blazes, then goes away. It is in my eyes, all around me. Back and forth, every time the same. There is even a photograph of the moment. Pig-tails, puff-sleeved dress, bare legs above white socks folded down just so. Golden years.
Six years old. I see the harsh ceiling light casting shadows in the bedroom I share with my grandmother. She sits in a chair by the open window at night, next to a window with the shade still pulled up. Her black patent-leather purse lies open in her lap. She is counting her money, the little she has. I see her do this night after night before going to bed. I do not understand her penury, her helplessness. She moved in with us to care for my baby sister and me when my mother went to work and my father started going to college on the GI Bill at night after work. I do not want her here; I blame her for the disruption in my life. She is not the cuddly grandma of story books. One night when no one is at home, a thief smashes the window and steals her money. She is despondent, her dependence on us now complete. My father, behind her back, vents his annoyance at her foolishness. He had warned her not to leave the shades up at night. I take pleasure that he and I have a common enemy.
I still don’t like ceiling lights or being confined to a house. I want to be outside in the light.
Ten years old. Cold, gray winter light, enveloping and classroom-cozy. A radiator hums under the window on the side of the room. Maps are pinned to the wall showing the continents, the wide world I long to know about. My desk is in the middle of the row because I am medium-tall, and we are arranged loosely by height. I am surrounded by classmates and a good-enough teacher. I am safe from the tensions at home. Bliss. I have become a master of compensation
Childhood over. Shaped by, benefitted from, sometimes fought against. Eighty now. Adulthood waning, trying not to take for granted the light shining off the green leaves on the oak tree. Or the swirly patterns of light in the swimming pool, or the shadows mimicking the sway of Calder sculptures in the museum. Or the shaft of winter sun slanting through the window. Or the light and shadow on your face as you squint in the sun. I don’t ever want to be separated from you. I know I will be, but not now, now there is light.
Part 3: Macdonald Observatory, Looking at the Sun
The light that started so many million miles away took only six minutes to reach the lens I look through. I struggle to comprehend. Fahrenheit and centigrade, calculus and physics cannot get to its essence. Robert Frost thought it before me: “Oh star, use language we can comprehend…” But even he can’t entirely describe its properties, its awe. Except to say that we came from it. It gave us life, and, like a fiery, possessive mother, it will take us and the earth back into itself someday.
Houston Writers' Group 