Between a Candle and a Mirror

When I walk south across the yard after lunch, the sun on my face feels warm, even though it’s minus twenty and the sun is so low, its bright beams slice through mountain tops.
Crunch. Crunch. My hard-toed boots strike dry snow. I don’t stop. Movement warms my legs and arms. It’s hard to believe that small white bulb shedding less heat than a candle is actually a blazing ball of hydrogen. I can still feel warmth on my left cheek when I turn west at the end of G Camp, and my face is definitely colder when I turn north at the next corner. I pull up the face mask and hurry along a little faster, heading ‘home’ to my warm office.

Looking north, I see an orange moon disk sinking slowly behind a snowy hill. It looks as big as the sun, but I feel no heat. There is no fire there -- it’s just a mirror, offering reflected light to guide me through darkness. As daylight arrives, it fades and retires, unable to compete with a star.

Of course, it is my egocentric nature that sees these celestial bodies move. In reality, I am the celestial body in motion -- not just walking, but also taking a wild ride through the universe on a spinning globe. I am so comfortable with this miracle that I seldom even think of it. Only when my heart and mind find it hard to let go of a moment do I remember, ah yes, the earth does turn and I must go with it. Time is defined by the candle and the mirror, and my life is defined by times when I move forward and times when I pause to reflect, before moving forward again.

In his book ‘Lightning,’ Dean Koontz says there is always hope because each night is followed not by another night, but by sunrise and a new day.

I do love sunrises more than sunsets – exponentially more.