Ra

One morning last week, I went across the street and sat at the beach while the sun came up. I wanted to witness the first warming spark as it breached the horizon. Not through my window or my camera, with no company; just Ru and Ra. The sky was brushed with pink cotton clouds, the ocean cloaked in a pale gold mist. The sky was robin’s egg blue near the water, then changed higher up to something brighter and brassier yet richer and deeper at the same time. Amazing. I placed myself directly in line with the spot where I figured the initial ray would appear, a step down on the breakwater, regrettably not far enough to avoid the “pound pound pound, huff huff huff”, but far enough that it wouldn’t matter once the show started. Then, I waited. Watched. Listened. Marvelled.

A gang of crows were hanging out on the rocks below me. As the eastern halo intensified, one of the crows erupted into “caw caw caw” and the whole flock took wing, buzzing so close to my head that I heard the wind whuffing through their feathers. They landed on the rail that runs along Dallas Road; the ringleader cawed again, and they all turned toward the sun. I was so fascinated by their behaviour that I almost forgot to turn myself. The gulls were doing something similar down in the water, gathering to greet the new day.

The light changed again, the golden halo shrinking and glowing harder, fiercer. The water was still, the birds quiet. No joggers, go figure. Then the first tiny gleam, bright minted gold, peered over the silhouetted houses on the far side of the bay. One single spark—then two, as the shape of a house split the atom; then three as the earth tipped a little further and the topmost arc of the corona rose above the shadow peak. The ocean caught fire, my retinas began to sizzle, and I glanced down to watch the fire line stretch across the water. The clouds turned white. The mist disappeared. The sky assumed a pure polished blue as the sunlight itself gradually eased from intense orange gold to sparkling silver and, finally, to blazing white.

Now, I know that the sun is actually a gargantuan rock roiling with combustible gas and belching fire. I also know that the sun doesn’t move. We do. Sunrise, sunset, and the path in between are optical illusions driven by the earth’s tilt, rotation, and orbit. Daybreak and twilight are a blend of physics and perception. Sometimes I feel as if I am made from the same blend. Someone once told me that I am the calmest person she knows. I was gobsmacked—and oddly touched that she would perceive my energy the way we perceive the sun’s: as a warm and nourishing presence.

I suppose I could laugh it off (I actually think I did), but deep down, her observation stayed with me. So when I watched the sun rise serenely over the ocean that day last week, I remembered what she said … and that it’s a good idea not to get too close.

There’s nothing serene about a billion degree burn.