Ceiling Dance | Mark Lindsay
The equinox has passed. As days lengthen into summer the light surrounds the house with its daily dance. Every room is a stage, each one having its hour of performance as the sun moves from spot to spot. No two days are ever alike. No two performances are the same. The only thing certain is the sun itself. It is impossible to escape the sun inside or out during its peak months. Why even try?
A nap is a respite from the summer glare—as long as there isn't a heat wave. Waking up in sweltering heat imparts a dark mood that is hard to shake. I'd rather be around a crowd of sleep-deprived toddlers than one adult who's awoken into sweltering heat after an afternoon snooze. Luckily, here in Northern California, the heat waves are rare and most often the shimmering light of an arriving fog bank is what we find upon awakening. Waking up to impending fog is the best feeling there is.
It is a moment of deliciousness to look at the ceiling and find the dancing shadows and sparkles of light. The kiss of the fog bank diffuses the light's sharp angles, softening the amorphous shapes into a dream. The dream extends to the top of the room and then beyond. Eyes focus and then they don't. The allure of hypnotic dance pulls me back into an altered state of awareness. A black cat sighs nearby. Industry can wait. The dream continues.