Privilege Blog

Light In The Morning, Or, Saturday At 8:07am

There’s nothing better than light in the morning. Just now some camellia leaves outside my window are shining so brightly they throw the folds of this sofa cushion into high relief. I can even see the nap of faux suede, in ridges like sand blown by wind across dunes. There must be dew on the shrubbery.

The light’s going to fade in a minute. Yes, the camellia has gone green again. The sofa cushion reverts to upholstery. The coffee table shines instead, briefly. I got it at Pottery Barn.

This is how to feel time. Every little increment shining. Each regular thing lit in turn. Now the dust on that same window turns platinum, almost white, and the camellia bushes throw spiky shadows on the glass. I’m expecting the pile of laundry on the long low basket drawers to light up next. Maybe my leopardskin tee shirt. Maybe the baby blue towels. We don’t always get to choose what illuminates. Nor, really, would we want to.

Have a wonderful weekend.

30 Responses

  1. A perfect Blogtopian post: beauty and transience evoked before the camera draws back to a wider and more metaphorical experience. May the light linger with you.

  2. Lovely post. I am watching the light out the windows of my bedroom lighting up different parts of the hill in the background through blinding wet leaves, and the the kitty sitting on the back of the couch next to the window–reminding me of the first time she ever saw the morning light as a tiny kitten on this same couch in a different house. All creatures are in awe of the light, it’s so amazing.

    Hope you have a great weekend!
    xo Mary Jo

  3. Wonderfully evocative post! I notice the light more at the end of the day. As the sun sets, it shines into my kitchen window, blinding me and lighting various parts of the room. Then it disappears, and twilight is here.

  4. Hello, you sound very serene. This is a very soothing post.

    It’s 7.30 am here and when I woke my 1st thought was that my Mum was here which made me feel really happy. I can hear her pottering about down stairs.

    Might go and have a macaroon for breakfast, xxxx

  5. lauren – That would be lovely. Thank youl

    mise – Ah. Just goes to show that when one focuses on the immediate the further off may pay a visit. Even when not per se invited.

    mary jo – Lovely. Thank you.

    Stephanie – Thank you! Camellias were planted in groves in the California of 1950…

    Susan – My pleasure. And thank you. Wisdom is just in the moment I think.

    deja – xox.

  6. mater – We share an approach and some temperament, I think.

    Sewing – Ah. Lovely.

    hostess – Thank you. I do try to embrace the random. As you do the every day.

    Preppy 101 – Thank you!

    Marsha – I very much appreciate your words.

  7. FF – Aw. I know when my kids are around sometimes the best thing I can do for them is make soothing motherish noises in the background.

    Belle – Thank you so much.

    Meg – Thank you.

    SSG – Yes, I like the feeling of intense immediacy.

    Terri – Thank you.

  8. Katherine – Oh thank you. I hope Old Nassau is shining brightly. They’ve had a heck of a winter out there, I know. If you see a skinny boy with bright blue eyes he could be mine:).

    The Daily Connoisseur – Thank you so much. I hope your weekend has been lovely as well.

    La Belette – From one who truly illuminates:). Thank you.

    Tabitha – What a nice thing to say. Thank you!

  9. I miss camellias. We had them in Louisiana when I was growing up. They bloomed in January or February–an incongruous idea to me now as I look out at my yard full of snow. Thank you for bringing them back for an instant, Lisa!

  10. There is a time of day during this season where the sun hits my family room table and when the cat sits in it at just the right time her whiskers light up and frost seems to appear around her ears. It’s such a beautiful sight. Glad you slowed down to appreciate yours and share it with us.

  11. Very frequently I cannot comment on your words because I’m too busy holding onto books and pieces of heavy furniture to keep from floating away. I have to visit, instead, several times to read the words and build up a beauty callous enough to say something about them. Sometimes I never quite get there.

    This is that.

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