Dappled light

by Danielle Charles

After a week of rather raw and damp weather, we were blessed with two of the most perfect, beautiful spring days this past weekend. M and I went for a long walk. The sun was so bright, the air warm and the breeze soft as down feather.  It was perfect.  As we ambled down a wooded stretch of the path following the twisting river, I suddenly stopped in my tracks. Dappled light I said. He gave me a sort of curious look, one I elicit from him rather frequently. Dappled light.  It means the leaves are out. We both looked up and there above us were leaves as bright and delicate as gossamer, transforming the light with shadow, soft flickering movements and the soft glow and glimmer of green. The entire forest was alive with this light, a kaleidoscope of soft shadows and glowing sun beams. Later, as the day was wearing into evening, we stood under one of the larger apples in our yard with the bees busily buzzing all around us, and let the light fall through the branches, tiny leaves and rosy blooms onto our faces.

And today, even as I write, the sun falls through the window pane and spills onto the floor, and in that light are the tiny flickerings of a hundred delicate leaves. Dappled light. A subtle thing yes, but one of those many wonderful nuances of a season that enter back into our lives so gently and quietly that we barely perceive them, and yet they are perhaps some of life’s most miraculous happenings.

I will be back soon with some recipes for you. Happy Monday.