“It’s always beautiful in Niantic at 6:00,” my grandmother used to say. We would laugh and tease her when she said it, because she would often make that pronouncement in the middle of a thunderstorm or on a cold and foggy beach day that looked like it would never end. But the thing is, she was almost always right. And we’ve been quoting her for 25 years now. Inevitably, the sun would gradually reappear in the early evening and we’d all head outdoors after being cooped up in our tiny beach cottage for the better part of the day.
And whenever the clouds part and the sun begins to shine in the late afternoon after a dreary day, I think of my grandmother and her words. Now that I’m older and maybe a little bit wiser, I think she might just have been talking about more than the weather.
Today, as I was driving home after a late afternoon meeting, I suddenly noticed the blue. Even though it is March, the light had a Septemberish quality to it. The sun was bright in the Western sky, the wind had finally subsided, the clouds had magically disappeared, and I thought about my grandmother’s words. My day wasn’t easy, and I was feeling ragged and raw. But when I looked toward the mountains and took a moment to just breathe and notice how clear and crisp it all looked, I thought about light. Light at the end of a long hard day. Light at the end of the tunnel.