Posted By admin on May 1, 2015
When I lived on the East Coast, I learned that the summer days are not only hot, but humid. The humidity is sometimes so thick you can see it, a steam-like film that gauzes the air and makes everything uncomfortable. The first few really hot summer days I experienced, I waited, with great naivete and anticipation, for the sun to go down and things to cool off.
That didn’t happen.
Oh, the sun went down. But nothing cooled off. More often than not, the temperature stayed roughly the same until about three AM, when the humidity laid down some dew and gave up ten degrees before furnacing up for another day.
It took my West Coast self about a week to realize this was not some abnormal weather pattern. This was normal. I’d get used to it, they said. But let me tell you, I’m just not wired that way.
There exists a magical time in a western summer day. When the sun is low and the earth starts to cool. When the grass and trees go fragrant, sighing into the dusk. For a short window of time, the world quiets as it transitions into night. And if you’re paying attention, it is in this moment that everything seems possible. Every dream, every thought, every love–all possible.
I remember, as a kid of a certain age, when my bedtime co-existed with the magical hour. I wailed the usual, “But it’s not even dark yet!” that all kids wail. I lobbied for an extension until it was dark. But in my heart, I liked it. I liked crawling into bed during the magic hour, staring out the window as the day shut down and went quiet, liked being aware of the lengthening shadows in my bedroom until daylight blinked out completely.
As an adult, I don’t often have the luxury of being in bed before the sun goes down. But the peaceful feeling that comes with the dusk on a hot summer day, that moment when the world sighs and opens, will always be something I love.