'On Light'"Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you."
-Maori Proverb
Holy.
How to describe this morning. There is a brightness about the day, a brightness which seems to be pushing me to be creative.
A sparkle.
Golden light.
Everything with a certain clarity.
You might say 'enlightened'.
Full of intuitive insight.
Light. Bright. Yes.
All reminding me to...
And then, I remember.
I need to buy flashlight batteries.
Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. A day chock-a-block full of activity. For Chester and me, it will begin before daylight. There will be fumbling about in darkness, ferry crossings, long long car travel, lots of 'The Unknown'.
And if I am going to spend today creatively, today, Saturday,
the last full day of my self-inflicted-hermit's-pilgrimage,
I must get organized for tomorrow - right now.
And what I need are batteries.
My trusty little flashlight is growing dim.
I will be happier knowing that, if nothing else, I am holding on to the light.
Chester and I hike up the highway to the hardware store. The hardware store where the young man I call 'Red' is working. He is busy with paint, (the wall-painting variety), so, looping Chester's leash outside, I enter, perusing the aisles of bicycle parts, nuts, bolts, screws, nails, tools, plumbing supplies. When I hear, "Oh, Hey!", I know he is free.
His wide grin enchanting. We chat about art, about hardware, the beautiful spring weather.
He comes out to see Chester and I follow, clutching a small brown paper bag holding two AA batteries.
This done, Chester and I carry on with our walk, meandering toward the 'Cat Ridge' area of the village. Off in these farther reaches of the curving harbour road, sits the striking Ocracoke Lighthouse.
Call this a (short) pilgrimage of sorts, but I have a hankering to see it close to.
A flashlight on a grand scale.
And it is grand.
Ocracoke Lighthouse stands about 75 feet tall, its brick walls five feet thick at the base. Nearly 200 years old, (and not the first lighthouse marking Ocracoke Inlet), its solid white colouration distinct.
Once known as 'Pilot Town', this little island village was settled by pilots.
(And pirates, for that matter.)
Piloting ships, a tricky (and necessary) business.
The shifting channels around this island, hazardous.
Ocracoke Lighthouse.
A stationary beam visible fourteen miles out to sea, the octagonal lantern, 8000 candle power.
Standing at the base, I gaze up the vast white side, blinding white in the brilliant sunlight.
Ocracoke Lighthouse.
How many, in 200 years, have been guided by this light?
A solid steadfast beacon.
Walking home via the harbour road, we reach the Community Store where I pick up a small mesh bag of foil wrapped chocolate Easter eggs.
And think about what lies ahead.
Tomorrow.
The glorious celebration of Easter.
A day of light, renewal, love, celebration.
Of light risen.
And, (in the here and now), light rising from the sea in the east, and lighting our way.
Hallelujah.
The afternoon is spent drawing.
Oil pastels, graphite, drawing pad.
Between drawings, I gather together what I need for Sunday, stowing it all in my day pack.
I place this by the door with a large water-bottle, Chester's leash, purse, hoodie, car keys.
I am as organized as I've ever been, and unbelievably excited at what tomorrow will bring.
The rest of Saturday, (the daylight part of the day), I am deep in my art.
And when the sun goes down across the Pamlico Sound in the west, and all is beautifully bathed in golden light,
everything slowly and gradually darkens, leaving the moon, (just past full), to take over the business of lighting the sky.
And with this moon looking down on the little island of Ocracoke, I sleep.
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