elaby | Sunlight on Imbolc

It's Imbolc, and this morning it was just on the cusp of freezing. It rained a fine sleet-mist until early afternoon, but sometime around 2:00, the clouds rolled back and left the sky a pale blue field, washed clean. I went out on my afternoon break, with the sun low but still that pre-evening, white-hot silver. With the air cool and wet and the sun warm, it had climbed to 39 degrees, but I'd swear it felt more like 50.

There was no one around, just me and the crows and the deer (you'd never believe I work in an office park that used to be an Air Force base) and the palpable light. The rise in temperature after the rain brought all the moisture out of the ground, and the trees in the distance – not even that far in the distance – were blurred together in a silver haze that looked more like late June than the first day of February. The pavement, still wet from the rain, was black and shining in places with blinding brilliance. I wore my barn coat open. I hear people say all the time that you should be in the world, but I rarely find it as easy as I did today.

Part of me wanted to stay outside, but I had this weird feeling of "It will be just as good no matter how long it lasts," which is rare for someone who holds onto feelings as tightly as I do.

The sun gives me gifts sometimes, especially out here when I'm at work and I really need them. Mostly it's these little white splinters of light on pine needles, but today it was molten silver twin suns, one reflected perfectly in a mirror-still puddle that spanned half the road, and a matrix of lit branches where one shaft, caught between a tree and the building, fell through a bare bush.