It warms the earth, gives breath to plants, and sustains human life. Even fitful flickers of light hold fascination and appeal. We are hypnotized, it would seem, by sunlight, starlight, candles, campfires, sparks, and flares.
The tiniest flicker of light has its own brilliance. The blacker the black the greater the radiant circle of its light. The colder the cold, the more force given to the dimmest of indicators. When there is nothing but a pit of darkness, even a shadowy and doubtful burn that flickers and seems to give life to dead skin, can be more comforting than no light at all.
But the true power of light is its speed. With its ear-splitting and ear-rending cry (thankfully too high-pitched for human ears), it scurries all four-headed beasts and three-legged monsters that hide in clothes closets or under beds. And with equal effectiveness, it peals through space and gives such a sudden and unexpected shock to dark events of antiquity that they turn inside-out into a current continuum of time.
We resist separation from light in life, and in death our wish for it is frantic. The death-launch provides certainty of a life well-lived, when the final address is a beacon of light. All is well if we see nothing more than a pinpoint of light, as long as it has holding power. We will go to the light. There is safety and redemption in it.
So what is this magic that it do?
Penetrating all layers of body fusion and erasing ethereal convictions that there are beasts under the bed.
Highlighting and magnifying the spirit of the oil in a painting, the water in the lake, the forest in the woods, the music in the chambers, the clouds on the horizon, the color in my hair, and the convictions in my soul?
Today the sky is gray. There is no luminosity in anything within or without. I sit in shadows. My only salvation is a tiny beacon of light that beckons me to come to it.
I am thankful the coffee is ready and grateful the indicator-light is on.