Though I have come to love the night, I remain a creature of the day. I am happy to see you, Light, familiar guide! You parted the watery seal of my blind infant eyes. Through you, in many angles, I see the beautiful world. In night you come to us, too, in small glimmers of stars so that we learn to see in the dark. We have all loved light from the time of our ancestors’ fins, climbing out of the ocean womb onto land.
Some landscapes I never had to learn to love as a separate thing outside of myself. They were a part of my cosmology from the start. The morning light fluttering the oaks and the pines, spilling over wheat-grass hills, my valley’s rivers, unassuming neighborhoods anointed with a secret glow in the desert dawn. As a child I did not have words to describe what I knew: the presence of something profoundly beautiful and holy infusing my encounter with the humble everyday-world. Before the time of consciousness thought, I saw there is a brightness that hums within things.
I remember thinking, in my later childhood, what if it is not only the Light itself, but what it touches that makes it so beautiful? The light and the land are always delighting in each other’s company. The hallowed forest, land-and-sea-creatures, the quiet soil all call out to you, Light, to come find us and fill us with your warmth and strength. Give us visible form, so that we know each other.
If the cosmos were without matter or form, what would give the Light his own lovely face if he had nothing to touch, and so nothing to reflect his beauty? Light’s glory and colors are seen when reflected in the physical world. Maybe that is why God is always in search of us creatures.