The light keeps changing at my house.
When the neighbour’s beautiful spruce trees were cut down and the house demolished, we were flooded with west light. In the windows, in the garden. It was strange and delightful, but a bit of a worry, too. In the summer the west sun is very, very hot here, and we had no shelter from it. We have trees in our yard, but nothing to the west.
It didn’t matter, it turns out, as June was a deluge in Calgary (as you may have heard). The light was green and blue and dark as dusk; the rare sun joyous and strange. By the end of it we felt like moles, venturing into the too-bright sunlight.
Then the new house next door started to go up, and our light changed again. We have shade from the west now, but the walls aren’t solid, so light filters through. This morning, yellow-tinged morning light is reflecting off the wooden structure back into the west window in the office in a lovely glow.
I wish there was a way to capture that in writing. Perhaps there is. If I’ve written this well, there is.
Maureen
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