Finding the light

The house was quiet, save the for the crickets, who ceaselessly chirped with their natural cheer, and the incessant traffic from the busy road at the end of the block.  All of our table lamps were in boxes, so I huddled in the living room within the small island of light from our floor lamp.  It was my last quiet morning there, in the house that had given us so many good memories.  Later in the day, after the sun was high, but shielded by clouds, I cleaned all the rooms newly made vacant by the industrious moving crew.  Rather than mourn, I anticipated all the ways our bright, sun-filled old house would bless a new family.  

In our new house, I look for ways to let the light into the rooms.  The house faces east, and has no southern windows.  Our backyard abuts delightful woods, full of mature trees that filter afternoon rays into our kitchen before the sun dips completely behind them.  There's a giant weeping willow out front--we're deciding on the perfect branch for our tree swing--that shades the windows there.  In short, very little natural light enters our house in summer.  Hopefully bare winter branches will change that.

I'm determined, though, to find the light, appreciate it, however it appears, literally or metaphorically, and amplify it.  I'm tearing out the wallpaper covered vertical blinds and heavy window treatments.  I'm noticing the sweet downtown, within a short walk of our house, where we ate lunch yesterday.  I watch one of my children sit quietly on our deck for an hour (though they didn't know I noticed), listening to the bird calls and the wind swishing the maples in our woods.  I'm grateful for the tiny school where our second son will begin in a few short days; it's the perfect place for him to learn how to be in a "real" school.  I think through new ways of arranging our space and our time, thankful for the reset that a move always brings.  And while we miss all of our friends, we look forward to making new ones, and appreciate this gift of a slower year for our homeschool.  It's an opportunity to fill in the corners of our schedule with the subjects and work that busy-ness never allowed. 

(My begonia loves the low light!  It used to put forth a few leaves, then drop them all.  It's never bloomed before.)