A Brief Moment of Sunlight
And a reminder that we all see things differently
Today, the sun almost peeked through the clouds.
I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, my computer balanced on my lap and my roommate’s cat asleep on the rolling desk chair next to me. My curtains were pulled open as wide as possible to let in what little light there was.
Then the whole room shifted.
For a few minutes, a golden tone cast warmth and bright energy through my window. It was going to pass quickly, I knew—too quickly for me to bundle up and go outside, so instead I stripped down to my tank top and shorts and stood in front of the glass, allowing the light to wash over my bare skin. I closed my eyes and breathed. I felt the warmth reach my heart.
It sounds extreme, but listen: this is the first day we have had ANY measure of sunlight in TEN DAYS. What’s more, to be considered a “sunny” day, the city has to experience 70% or more sunshine, and there were only TWO SUNNY DAYS in the entire month of January.
This is winter in Chicago, where nearly 10% of residents suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder. (By contrast, fewer than 2% of Floridians experience SAD.)
A couple of days ago, I remarked to my roommate something about the long stretch of cloudy days. At this point, we had had 100% cloud cover for six or seven days in a row.
Oh? She laughed lightly. I hadn’t noticed.
I felt my mouth hang open for a moment, my eyebrows knit.
You hadn’t noticed?!
Each sunny winter day I feel moments of gratitude so strong I acknowledge them out loud. I go for a walk to the lake every sunny day and every partly-sunny day. I stand at the shore and lift my face to the sky, my hands outstretched toward the sand or the grass beneath my boots. If it’s mild enough, I peel off my hat and gloves and soak in the sunshine until my fingers and ears burn with cold.
On cloudy days, I walk, too. Most of the time. It’s harder to convince myself to be outside when it’s cold-and-cloudy than when it’s cold-but-there’s-some-sun. But I’ve learned that spending time outside, even in the winter, is important for my health. So I write it on my to-do list. (Yep.) And most of the time, I can cross it off before the light starts to fade in the afternoon.
Each morning, I stand at the dining room window and look out toward the street. The sun is part of that moment, whether it’s shining or hidden.
I make note of the cloud cover, relative to the sun, as I begin my day.
It had never occurred to me that a person could go through life simply not noticing that there was no sun. Not even for one day, let alone several days in a row.
As my roommate and I talked about the clouds, and I processed my own disbelief about her experience, I was reminded of an observation made by an artist, Mari Andrew, who I follow on Instagram.
In her post, Mari described her fear of flying, which she acknowledged is a fear (like most) that not everyone experiences.
She also described her great discomfort in heat and summertime, and the empathetic response she received from a woman when she mentioned it.
‘You probably feel this more strongly than I do’ is a nicer perspective than ‘This is nothing.’
There’s a thin and blurry line, Mari concluded, between ‘nothings’ and ‘somethings.’
What feels to one person like “nothing at all” might feel unbearable for the person standing next to them, and a third person might perceive it as only a mild inconvenience.
And while most of us probably understand it at some level, it doesn’t hurt to be reminded:
Be kind out there, folks. We’re all experiencing the world differently.
