Many of my days begin, end, and are punctuated by chasing sunbeams cast off by circles–or, more accurately, spheres.
And each one of those circles is its own echo chamber. A rain-riddled ornament glows with weak winter light and reminds me of the silver orbs in Paris in which my husband and I were reflected back in miniature in our blue winter coats.
The infinite circles (or rather two points, plus open intervals, I am informed by my children) which make up a sphere seem to form both an unbreachable boundary and an impermeable protective barrier for what is within. A necessary if immeasurable distance.
As a caregiver I felt as if I were teetering on the outside of the circle occupied by suffering patients. As with my children, I gladly would have broken through if I could have and jumped inside to trade places, but was left looking desperately across that endless edge.
It’s only a one-way crossover now.
Sometimes Jim visits in a dream, because I can envision him in our world but can no longer see the space his spirit and light occupies. I can’t go there. But I know it is a place of peace and grace.
And perhaps the light that catches my eye–that strikes one circular pumpkin in a field of narrow ones shaped liked patrician Secretary of States’ noggins; that reflects in a pinpoint star in a cedar waxwing’s eye; that sets fire to the cloud breath of a sky dragon at sunrise; that turns an incoming wave to liquid gold–is breaking through the circle, too.