I love light. It fascinates me. Always has.
I watched the light streaming in the primary school window when I was a wee boy and marvelled at the swirling patterns it created on the wall. Shame I didn’t pay as much attention to the teacher. She noticed though. Sadist. And threw a wooden blackboard duster at me.
It was wonderful!
The swirling chalk dust she created, blizzarding through the sunshafts, was inspiring! Light made solid by an ill tempered but accurate tutor.
But other folks have loved light too. A long time ago.
The folks who lived in Orkney. The ones who built the Ring of Brodgar.
These are old stones. Big stones. Each one an individual character, weather worn and silent. Aligned to solstice, perhaps. Their long shadows crept towards me one evening, across the grass, as darkness welled up in the eastern sky.
And just as the sun came to the horizon a strange thing happened. A ring appeared above me.
A ring on the ground of stone, a ring above of cloud and light.
Enduring the repeated pain of the well-thrown dusters was worth it to learn enough about light to want be here to witness this unpredictable moment.