Light lately
Light, lately, has helped me feel time.
The morning light is blue and misty, a kiss on your skin. The midday sun is vicious, forcing out the saturation of everything to the point of losing their colour altogether. And then, sometimes in the afternoon, the air itself seems to soften; long shadows like lazy cats stretching, the river turned to butter.
When you’re in the same place for a while, doing the same thing, the days begin to blend together. The hours that look alike seem to merge in your memory, shortening your perception of the days, weeks, months.
I didn’t want that to happen while I spent six weeks in Hoi An by myself. Even though I’ve been here before and the space is largely familiar, I didn’t want it to fade and blend into a nothing. I did not want the continuous pursuit of my goals to eclipse the experience of being here, in this moment in time.
I’ve gotten more into photography lately. Playing around with camera settings and edits has opened up a new creative palette for me to play with. More than that though, it is forcing my eye to see things in a different way.
As an antidote to the rush, to the black-hole-like gravity of my work, I started watching the light. How it falls on different surfaces at various hours of the day; how it is filtered through leaves and bamboo roofs, dancing on top of tables, brick walls, the back of chairs. How it is both taken and given back by the water fogging up my glass and flowing lazily to my side.
Paying attention to the light anchors me in the present moment. It reminds me, if even briefly, of the physical world around me, the astronomical miracle of my existence, and the impossible balance of the natural world. The fact that there is a burning fireball seemingly circulating the earth, controlling it all, taking and giving life like some intense god.
When I watch the light, I remember that there will be no other moment like this. If I wait one minute, ten, an hour, it will already have changed. If I come back tomorrow, there is no guarantee I will see the same thing: Clouds, wind, humidity, fog may come in my way.
The main town of Hoi An is partly encircled by a row of rice fields, cut apart only by a few main roads. I make a point out of ending work around five o’clock, so that I may venture into the green and watch the sunset, ending around six.
Sometimes I run, sometimes I walk. Sometimes I listen to music, sometimes I don’t. I change up the routes, but whenever I come by a water buffalo, I stand still and observe it for a bit. On one particular road, there is a farm full of animals; cats, dogs, cows, ducks, geese, chickens. Naturally, I stop to pet the puppies.
The sunset is different every day; sometimes it serves a spectacular view, drawing out the deep green of the rice fields with its strokes of orange, pink, and gold. Sometimes it burns as a rust-red cigarette cherry against a dark grey sky. Sometimes it’s swallowed by thick clouds before it has a chance to make its mark.
Yet every time, it is a reminder. It makes me slow and stop. It makes me look at the calendar and appreciate that another day has gone; bringing me closer to the end of my time here. Awareness and appreciation.
That’s why I tell myself to halt and watch the light. As if you need a reason.
