There’s a time of day, usually late afternoon, when the light in my home softens. It stretches across the floor and spills through the windows like it’s in no rush to leave. It’s not showy or dramatic, just golden, easy, and full of presence. And it’s in those moments when the world feels hushed and bathed in that kind of light that I often pause without even meaning to. It’s not a grand silence, but a quiet that feels… sacred.
I remember days during caregiving when I barely noticed the light at all. The hours often blurred together – meals, medications, phone calls, managing symptoms, deep breaths, and tears tucked away in corners where no one could see. It was a rhythm of necessity, one that didn’t leave much room for softness. And yet, every so often, something small would catch me – a sliver of light on my mom’s face as she rested, or the way the sun illuminated the roses in her backyard. Those roses were my mom’s and my space of special togetherness. Those were the moments that grounded me. Tiny pauses where time seemed to bend just enough to let me breathe.
In those rare pauses, I felt everything and nothing at once. Grief. Gratitude. Exhaustion. A kind of quiet peace I still can’t quite explain. It’s strange how all those emotions can coexist in a single breath.
These days, when the light slants just right in the rose garden I now have in front of my house, I make space for it. I stop. I sit in it. I let it remind me of the love that lived in the caregiving, not just the in overwhelming loss. Sometimes, I feel Mom there—not in a ghostly sense, but the way a sweet memory settles into your body, warm and steady. I think she would like these moments—slow and light-filled, without rush or expectation.
It’s so easy to move through this hurried life on autopilot, checking things off a never-ending list. But maybe healing – the real kind – lives in the in-between: the pause, the sunbeam, the breath before the next word.
If you’re reading this, I hope you take a moment today to notice the light. Let it find you. Let it soften whatever you’re carrying. You don’t have to fix anything. You don’t even have to name it. Just be. And by all means, don’t forget to BREATHE.
Hugs,
Cyndi