Twice A Day True

The days before “something big” happens there’s an innocence about the good that’s yet to come.

I’m sitting here at my kitchen table writing this, coffee in hand, feeling the warmth of the winds as they once again whisper change.

The trees across the street are changing too, green at their center, curling up into Autumn browns making their descent upon the Summer.

Yet the sunlight stays the same.



During long Winters or particularly urgent Springs, I find myself staring at the shadows and rays, losing myself to the shapes they take throughout the day.

The quality of the light is the only thing that changes much at all. It has a texture to it that the seasons allow and sometimes allude to, giving you the chance to make a mental note or two: return to this place. 

Outside the living room window, the sunlight rests on the bricks of the neighbor’s house and I imagine how it heats up the clay and cement as it slowly retraces yesterday’s steps across the building.

The light is the immutable truth.

How much of what gets through is what sometimes has to do with us.

Each season lends a hand in the shaping, Winter sunsets feel warm on the inside, though short in the length of time we have to catch them. They almost go unnoticed while rises and sets belonging to Summer are long, stretching across the sky, taking their time to change yellows, orange and pink to bright blues.

More than once I’ve asked myself what it is about the light.

Moments of quiet sometimes see me watching how the light moves and trying to find the point in the day so in between that you could change your direction and believe it’s the opposite end of the day.

If a clock is right twice a day, I thought that of sunlight, this must be true.

And I wondered if we were much of the same, too.

Despite the doubts and focus, we must be right twice a day. At two points separated by our deemed rise and set, there is a place of truth which slices through time.

Some days seeing the morning in the evening light is a tricky thing because of the objects on the horizon but in the vast, open spaces, you see what Rumi alluded to that whole time.

“Beyond our ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase ‘each other’ doesn’t make sense any more.”

There is a field. I’ll meet you there.

The light is not just from the sun, but the rays which shine out of our own depths too. And when we stand in those fields between right and wrongdoing, there is only the light.

How easy it is for us to lose and find ourselves in the sun rising and setting, basking in the waxing-waning moon.

In each phase there’s a place where a slight turn to the left or right, with a change of location casts your understanding of the time asunder.


There is only the light.

And if it shines within you, then so too must you be truth manifest, at least twice a day.

The swan song of the innocence of the good that’s yet to come.


On The Wings of Miracles,



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