![]() The ears gather the far-off rustling sounds we fail to note at other times. ![]() If we listen, they tell us, “I am no longer your greatest help here.” Now the body awakens. ![]() But as the light fades, the eyes must cede their seat of influence. I imagine that what happens is this: by day, our eyes dominate our sense of the world they gather and report and hold sway in our brains. ![]() At dusk our thoughts are no longer black and white but instead are glossy and almost purple, like the inside of a shell. Our awareness is broadened, as if we’ve grown a new sense. It blossoms from the core and spreads out to the edges of the skin and keeps going past our edges and into the soft, fading light. Something inside awakens to this transition. And we are in between, witness to it all. “It’s your turn now,” says one to the other. (Photos by Kai Potter)įrom where we stand on this outermost edge the dark mass of night sweeps in over the world from the ocean as the day withdraws over the bay, its light still mixed in the molecules of the air. On a walk in the fading light, the body awakens, hearing more, feeling its way. ![]() John Steinbeck described it as “the hour of the pearl.” For him it was a magical interlude just before dawn: “The interval between day and night when time stops and examines itself.” My hour of the pearl is the long dusky moment after the sun has dipped, and it is no longer day but not yet night. ![]()
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