When I was little, I thought the sun’s rays, mellowed by the tilt of the earth with rising dawn or fading day, filtered by clouds and horizons, was proof that there was a Heaven; I thought it looked like the images in the prayer books Mum carted to Mass with her to entertain us and buy her a little peace during long droning sermons. And they did, entertain us, those ‘holy books’ with their pictures and parables and gently nudging stories about what constituted good and evil. But what entertained us more was our little sister empting Mum’s handbag on the pew beside her and trying on Mum’s Jackie O sunglasses which were so big for her little face that she had to tilt her head back to keep them perched safely on her button nose and prevent them from tipping to the ground. We giggled then (as did the ranks of totos in the seats around us) until Mum opened her eyes and hissed, ‘read your holy books’. So we did.
I don’t think I am a religious person, but perhaps I am a spiritual one. I no longer think the sieved sunlight is heaven.
But I do think it’s heavenly. As are dawn walks in a pearly light on a beach bleached virgin white and unmarked. Except for my own tread.
That’s a precious and peaceful and unearthly sensation.