Finding Light, Finding Peace

Sometimes, it’s the smallest shifts that bring the quietest revolutions. I think of that first summer of retirement, remember how vast the days felt. It wasn't a sudden, dramatic change, more like a slow, gentle re-alignment. And it all started, really, with the morning light.

I'd always been a morning person, of course, but my mornings had been…structured. Up, coffee, a quick scan of the news, then off to school. There wasn’t time for lingering, for noticing. Now, with the house to myself, I found myself lingering. Just standing at the kitchen window, watching the garden wake up. It's a silly thing, isn't it? To simply *watch*. But it’s become vital.

You see, I wasn’t sleeping well. Not terribly, mind you. But that restless feeling, that sense of being slightly unmoored – it had been creeping in for years. More teaching meant more grading, more meetings, more everything. And that meant less time for the things that truly quieted me. Reading, gardening, simply being.

Then, Phyllis, dear Phyllis, who has always had a rather uncanny understanding of things, pointed out how I hadn’t been, well, *facing* the sun. She's deeply interested in these cycles, these rhythms. I’d always let her indulge, mostly out of politeness. But she wasn't lecturing. Just observing.

I started small. Instead of rushing through my coffee, I began sitting on the porch for fifteen minutes, just letting the sun warm my face. No book, no phone. Just…sun. The difference was subtle at first. A slight lessening of that internal tension. A feeling of being more grounded.

It's remarkable, really, what a simple thing like that can do. Our bodies, you see, are built to respond to these natural cues. To the lengthening days of summer, the shortening days of winter. We’ve become so disconnected from that, so wrapped up in artificial light and demanding schedules.

Bernard still gets up early to get ready for work, and I love those quiet moments with him before the house wakes up. But even the ten extra minutes I’m allowing myself to simply *be* in the sunlight make a difference. I sleep better, of course. But more than that, I feel…calmer. More present. More connected.

It's a lesson, isn't it? About how much we can gain simply by slowing down, by paying attention to the simplest of things. By letting the light in. And that, I think, is a quiet revolution worth having. That autumn equinox gathering with Phyllis, that was the first real clue. It’s still unfolding, that realization. One sun-drenched morning at a time.