Some of my earliest memories are steeped in a sense of the way the light fell and the feel of the air at the time; these seasonal cues have become my compass during the last few years.
After moving into our home in October 2021, I spent a year tracking the light in various rooms, realising that the low winter sun that shines directly into our back ‘garden room’ bringing the most welcome feeling of apricity, (thankfully) does not enter the room in the same way in the height of summer, due to the sun’s higher angle in the sky.
In the current blur of mothering two young children, where our days are spent in close orbit of each other; simply noticing the season playing out around us is an anchor and way to orient myself.
Right now, I am feeling most at home in the quieter corners and edges of summer, where the light is muted, hazy and often tinged with magic…
A lemon water dawn.
We woke this morning on the stroke of sunrise, 4.55am, to a wash of pale lemon water light illuminating the window frame and spilling onto the wall. Despite the heaviness of my eyes and a quiet plea for my day not to start pre-5am, I felt as though I had been let into the secret of distilled summer light in its purest form.
The watercolour coolness of the early morning light soothed the deepest aches in my body as I made a cradle with my arms, in an attempt to lull my son back to sleep. I felt myself stretch beyond my edges once again, surrendering and softening to what was needed in that tender moment.
Dance of dust.
On Friday, the morning light streamed from a cloudless sky into my daughter’s bedroom revealing a dance of dust particles. The children delighted in this unusual, usually invisible sight of tiny glinting sequins, suspended in sunlight. The flecks parted way, yielding to their soft, cherubic bodies; dancing through the screen of light and reaching for the glimmers as though they were the first whisperings of snow on a winter’s day.
It reminded me about the permeability of our bodies and how we are a part of our surroundings, absorbing the finest fragments of energy, even when they are entirely unseen.
Dappled woodland.
My local woods in high summer is a balm for the body and a salve for the soul. It is one of my favourite places to spend time when the strength of the sun begins to feel oppressive. The towering trees provide an oasis of shade and the ground below my feet is a canvas of dappled light.
Sunlight is sifted by the protective canopy of ancient trees above, creating a scattering of light and a dance of filagree shadows as we walk. Every so often, a gap in the trees reveals a sun shard beaming down like a celestial wand, conjuring a puddle of light onto the earth below.
Fields of gold.
When the sun starts its descent in the sky, the neighbouring houses take on a patina of burnished copper, gold and terracotta and the light casts a warm glow on my children’s faces, as if from a buttercup.
A most radiant memory of ‘golden hour’ is from our wedding in July 2015 when we were urged by our photographer to grasp the precious minutes of early evening light for our official photographs. Reluctantly leaving our friends and family in the midst of a Provençal spread, we ventured into the surrounding wheat and sunflower fields on a quest for a backdrop of sunbursts and an iridescent aura to outline and define us.
How does the summer light fall where you live?
What is your favourite memory of summer light?
I really loved this. I always find those moments of light interesting but never thought to capture them as a means for storytelling. (Also... those woods... I know those woods, I’m sure of it. Which makes me think we must be local-ish to each other. Which I hope doesn’t sound stalkerish!)
What a lovely read. I agree with Rachel, your photos are beautiful and my fave is “a dance of dust” 💜