The Possibility of Wholeness

Finally the sun is beginning to lose its grip. No longer does it grope through the heavy curtains in our room, waking me before I have to get up; no longer does it juice my brain so late in the day I can’t get to sleep at a reasonable hour. I can feel we’re on the approach to equilibrium, the promise of decent rest.

Today, the first Saturday in August, I woke up feeling I’d had a good night’s sleep. When I walked to the road to pick up the newspaper, the sky already was the clearest blue, dotted with white clouds. All day long the air was perfect—hot but balmy, without a hint of humidity. All day long the sun gave off the purest light.

Something about this light is indescribable—how richly it draws out the colors of the trees and the grass and the sky, how sharply it defines everything, yet lacks harshness. The world seems transfigured by it, infused with rightness, suffused with the presence of Uncreated Light.

I felt right today—rested, relaxed. I had no pressing obligations, no stress. I soaked in the scenery on my drive to and from the rink, basking in the light. My legs felt limber when I skated my rest-day laps. Later, I got some writing done. I had a good conversation with my wife.

Days like today are rare—just the right amounts of rest and activity and light to lube the brain, just enough exertion to keep the body loose.

Days like today lead me to believe in the possibility of wholeness.