Light

 We were in a car on the corner of Smith and Cleveland-Massillon in Fairlawn. The ugly, rambling Summit Mall was across the street to our right. It was an ordinary moment in an ordinary day. We were probably on our way to the mall, or the library just down the street. We must have waited at this red light hundreds of times in my childhood—maybe thousands.

I wasn’t a mall-wanderer; that was reserved for kids whose parents weren’t as protective as mine, who were much cooler, who gathered at the fountain in the middle of the mall, laughing together—probably at me.  I was old enough to be aware that I hated living in such a boring, rural-rapidly-turning-suburban place, that I hated the drab buildings emerging out of nowhere, built shabbily and rapidly--though I didn’t have words for it then. In short, this corner brought me nothing but anxiety and irritation on a normal day, unless I was enduring it only to get to the library.

On this particular day, it was that twilight-gold-and-red magical time between summer and fall, when the fog lies thick on the road in the morning, then burns off to reveal colorful leaves, a cooling breeze. No, no, it was the middle of summer, oppressive heat beginning to lift as  evening meandered into view, the sky turning red. Or maybe it was one of those sunny days in the winter between snowfalls, close to the solstice, just before the sun begins its early descent. I don’t remember.

Whatever the season, whatever the reason for our outing, whoever was in the car with me, whatever my age—something happened. The clouds shifted ever so subtly, and everything was suddenly emitting light. And when I say emitting, I don’t mean reflecting. There was something alight within each object—the cars around us, the drab walls of the mall, the gray cement, the spindly trees that leaned in toward the road, the squat, white, barn-like buildings just ahead to the left that housed upscale boutiques and salons.

I breathed in deeply, held my breath, then let the air out, slow and steady. Everything was emitting light. 

Time stopped.  The red light lingered for hours. All of this ugliness, I thought, all of this ordinary-ness, these places I have despised forever—they are sacred. The trees hastily planted to try to bring beauty to a sterile place--sacred. The people driving around Fairlawn running their errands, even the popular, shallow, blond girls and their moms whom I was sure were nothing like me and my mom—sacred, too.

Sacred. What did that word even mean? Where had I heard it? I don’t know, but I swear that was the word that came to me. 

All I knew was that the Light did not lie—this Light did not merely reflect but flooded through each atom of each visible thing. Even the air, invisible, glowed with a colorless radiance.

 We are all intimately connected by Light, I realized, though again, I didn't have the words to express this feeling then. We are all supposed to take great care with everyone and everything we see and touch and pass in our ordinary moments.

The stoplight turned green. My mother turned the wheel, casual, slow, then pressed her small, black shoe against the gas pedal. For some reason I remember seeing this, her foot pressing down, though I can’t figure out how that would be possible from the back seat.

We turned onto Smith, driving toward the library, the nursing home, and the cemetery where, sometime in the near future, my mother would be buried. 

The only other time I would experience light like this would be on the day of her burial. I was looking down into the giant pit where her coffin was going. I was past crying, past allowing hugs. My hands were deep in the pockets of my winter coat. 

That's when my friend Marina pushed her way through the crowd and wrapped her arms around me. She was tiny and fierce and she had lost her own mother two years earlier. She began to sob on my shoulder, and I wrapped my arms around her and whispered, "It's going to be OK. We're going to be OK." 

We were 13. Later, she would become a teen mom and disappear, and I'd spend a full summer trying to track her down, which I eventually did. But right now we were two motherless girls clutching each other.

While I was holding her, it happened again. Everything around us suddenly, inexplicably, swelled with light. It didn't shine down from above, understand, but instead began to emanate from within everything and everybody. From where I was standing, so close to the grave, I couldn't see the circle of family and friends behind me, but I did see the small granules of soil, the black winter boots the funeral home owner was wearing, the small granules of soil, the silver edge of a shovel, the shiny top of the coffin, the thick snow--all of it, and the air, too--radiant. 

"The light," whispered Marina, and I knew she was experiencing it, too. 

To say I felt joy while running an errand in Fairlawn, or while the grown ups buried my mother—well, it sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Now, as an adult, I know I can cultivate joy through spiritual practice, intentionality and attention. I can be open. 

But on that ordinary day at the stoplight at Cleveland-Massillon and Smith, and at my mother's burial, I was not open--but still, joy swelled swiftly from all the atoms in my surroundings so that even Marina and I, consumed by our grief, couldn't miss it. 

When I learned as an adult that we are all literally made of stardust, I knew that's what these moments so long ago had viscerally revealed to me. 

Light of light, true God of true God, begotten of the Father, from whom all things were made, I recited Sunday after Sunday. I thought the creed was pedantic--even then I knew it didn't really matter what I believed as long as I was open to Light. 

But I loved reciting this part, because I understood these words in my body. Light does not wait for us to be ready, or open. Light Is. Light, Creation, God, Emmanuel, Wonderful Counselor, Prince of Peace--whatever names we use--is dynamic, ever evolving, radiant, and, yes, full of joy.