Several
nights a month the full moon pokes its opal colored dome over the Grand Mesa,
and slowly ascends into the Colorado night sky, losing both its warm hue and
imposing size along the way. As it rises
ever higher, it gradually floats over Mantey Heights, sending milky shafts of
light through the skylight in our bathroom.
Depending upon the time of year and the moon’s position in the sky, the
light will slide down along the wall and into our bathtub or it may tickle our
towel rack before reaching the floor. For a few hours, it becomes a celestial
night light both calming and intriguing, and I look forward to its arrival
every month.
I
have always wondered why more houses do not have skylights. Why more people don’t eschew electricity for
that natural light. When I was a small child in San Francisco, we had a
skylight in our upstairs bathroom. It
was one of those kind that had chicken wire inside the glass that made a
pattern of hexagons across the ceiling.
My grandmother’s old house in the City had one too. Always emitting that clean, airy glow even
through the numerous foggy days in the Richmond District.
And
when we moved into our new house just one year ago, I was immediately delighted
to see that small rectangle of glass on the bathroom ceiling. Since our bathtub was not fully functional, I
put a dozen or so house plants in and around it, and it has become a nursery,
the plants sending their tendrils upward toward the skylight and reveling in
the humidity from the nearby shower. And
speaking of the shower, there is a real pleasure in soaping up under its steamy
and streamy output, while looking up at a window of deep blue sky where I can gain some measure of what the day may
be like outside. Sometimes I can watch the movement of whispy clouds overhead
as I rinse the shampoo from my hair. Even on winter days when the snow lies
heavy over the top of the skylight, the glow still filters through as if I am caught
under some weird avalanche.
But
it is those moonlit nights that I love the best. As I lie in my bed looking into the bathroom,
the light slowly enters. I’m never quite
sure what part of the wall it will decide to invade, but it always makes a
shaft that mirrors the skylight above it.
When I move in for a closer look, it seems as if the plants are swaying
and reaching toward the ephemeral glow. There is a vibration of illumination.
I
know it is all reflected light from the sun and I can appreciate the science of
it all. But mostly I can be grateful for that skylight where, for a few hours
every month, I can capture pieces of that rather holy moonlight, and make it my
own
