girlwomangoldensun
{11} interwoven: light multiplies light, i want to say
Welcome to interwoven. I am so glad that you are here. interwoven is a gentle, poetic & practical adventure in deep noticing, imagination and appreciation for paid subscribers of Another Beautiful Question. Explorations of nature and a life lived in relationship.
girlwomangoldensun
1. There’s a moment when we’re walking, when either him or me or both will say--the light has changed. And we reply, yes. Then both of us are silent.
2. We forget, I think, how light creates us. And when remembering occurs, in that second, anything we have to say no longer feels important. Our words instead replaced with light. We feel restored. It’s the way it should be, we nod gently to ourselves.
3. We see: the sun has gotten heavy, hangs now lower in the sky. She’s treacle, chai and ginger. Horopito, a tree that tastes of pepper. Right now, her light is golden.
4. Golden light is sometimes warmer, sometimes cooler. Cooler: lacks the strength to warm the air. Warmer: a body caught by golden sun is held. I turn my face, allow her now to catch me. I sigh and for a moment, I am peaceful. For a moment, I am girlwomangoldensun. Girl who is held by gold.
5. When we are walking, either him or me or both will say “look!” and we will point. We’re not pointing to a thing. There may be nothing there to see-- except the light. We always point towards, about, the light.
6. One thing I know for sure: light is a love language.
7. Sometimes, when I’m feeling rebellious, I look directly at the sun, even though my mother’s voice from years before tells me still that I’ll go blind. Forty years and then some-- I want to tell her: if you look right at the sun, for just a moment, looking away will make for you still yet a hundred more. Light multiples light, I want to say. If you look just for a second, you’ll always find more light.
8. I decide, the Girl Of Now 100 Suns, to hand them out to all my friends. How do you wrap the sun? A question I don’t know how to answer. But not knowing is no reason for not trying. I sit down, pull out my paper, wrap the sun tight up inside.
9. I hand you now your gifted sun and, of course, you gladly take it. You start to unwrap slowly, remark how your hands feel strangely warm. I know why, but of course I cannot tell you. It’s so hard to keep a secret. I want to say that it’s the sun, but I would ruin the surprise. I sit on my hands to stop my lips from moving, the sun and I both squirming.
10. You see the sun, your face lights up all goldenhoneytreacle. I take my sun now from my pocket to join yours, together launch them up towards the sky. We still hold them, of course, a single string like a child who’s been just now to see the circus, 98 more are still waiting, ready for release, still wrapped inside.
11. Light dances us, we all move round together. Human shard like fragments, shard light human fragments.
12. We decide: the collective noun for light is a kaleidoscope.
13. At night, round 5pm, we take the string, begin to pull now very gently. Our suns descend, a slowly blackened sky. You ask, where should we put them? A knowing you can’t hold the sun all night.
14. In the morning, we wake up, look out beyond the window, the acacia tree is yellow blooming just outside. A million suns, a bluish-purple night.
15. Acacia, light eater; light seeker, maker of a million suns and nights.
16. I read: On what basis do we owe the plants respect? The reply: They eat the light, and isn’t that enough?¹
It’s a curiosity to me how words only reveal themselves once you start the process of writing. This week, I sat down with no set idea in mind for what to share for interwoven and asked, what wants to be talked about? And beyond that, what is it you love?
What came: remember how you always love the light?
How you’re sustained by the light.
So this week, we’re exploring the landscape of light.
It’s the way it should be, we nod gently to ourselves.
