I was walking down the backyard pathway of The Elms. It was that twilight hour where everything is washed in a dim bluish tint but not quite dark enough for all the lamps to light up. I surveyed the wet grass that was spotted with damp fluffs of pollen as I strolled along. I paused. My heart fluttered at the sight of a little yellow glow, not even a second long, softly vanished in its upward flight. Fireflies.
There’s something comforting and almost romantic about a little light that shines in the darkness. Whether it is the initial sparks of a lighter, the flicker of a candle’s flame, the orange glow of dying embers, or even the flashing bulbs of commercial holiday lights, they all have this effect, although in different variations. Perhaps we are drawn to these specks of light because it gives us a vague promise of security and hope. For is it not light that helps us see the truth? In this faith we approach the light and maybe, finally, the truth will be uncovered. And maybe we’ll be safe.
I daresay, such hope is sisters with wishful thinking. Is that why we wish upon shootings stars and birthday candles? Do the glittering heavens reveal reality or fulfill desires? Whatever the reason, I love those moments of gazing up at the moon, walking under a lit lamppost at night, or catching the flashes of lightening in a thunderstorm. One day I hope to see the aurora borealis, the light of glowworms in cave, and so much more.
Ink Spot 