People who ride busses have to spend time waiting. I often use the time to think or read, but sometimes I observe the world around me while allowing myself simply to be. And sometimes I pull out a notepad and write down my thoughts.

The sun has started shining differently in the morning and evening. It’s lower in the sky, and it lends a different light to the objects it touches. The colors change, as if they were in pictures printed from slides. (What was the name of that process, when we made pictures from slides, which were basically the opposite of negatives?)

When the sunlight is like this, it becomes a pleasure to let it shine into my eyes as I almost—but not quite—look into it. It carries something that my being craves, the stuff of good moods and a friendly disposition, which can too easily go into hiding when days grow shorter and the nights longer. (How do people survive without the sun in the far north?) During much of the year I go out of my way to be in the shade, but this sun is different. It will disappear soon, giving way to the cold wind and darkness, but not before it has given me the strength I need for a journey in the cold tonight, after the warm feeling and my memory of it have passed.