A Different Light

Outside around eight-thirty I noticed the light is changing. It's becoming winter light--longer shadows, bluish tint, crisp (if light can be crisp). It's less hot now. I do not call it cool yet, merely less hot. But this translates if you've lived here.

The sidewalks radiate less heat when you go to get your mail. The smells outside are less intense because things aren't getting pounded by the sun's electromagnetic radiation. Things aren't burnt and pathetic. Things are dormant and ugly, but there's potntial. There's little green nubs, there's bugs and birds out foraging in the middle of the day.

This is hope to someone who's been through the Phoenix summer.

Tonight wind whipped up dust and trash and blew it around the neighborhood. We sat outside and watched. It was awesome. It was the greatest balm to my summer-weary soul to sit out front and see stormy, ominous skies and be out of the house barefoot at six-thirty. That simply doesn't happen here.

We are entering our blessed time of year. We're entering The Reason Any Suckers Stay in Phoenix. We all get so preoccupied and giddily-confused by the awesome weather that we trick ourselves into believing that summer is only three months long.

We know better. But we're like the kids who didn't get asked to prom: we didn't want to go anyway. We're shoveling sunshine all winter and we spend all summer telling ourselves it's worth it.

Either way, the light is different here now. It makes life tolerable. It makes afternoon chores and mundane errands and trips to the grovery store for one thing manageable. And if you're nodding your head right now, congratulations, you've survived.