A Light That Stays On

I’ve always known something about my light. Even as a child, I felt it in myself on good days. I was drawn to it in others, and I’ve always been attracted to basking in beautiful light—whether in a person, a landscape, or the way the sun hits a wall in late afternoon. I even named my child after the idea of light.

But for much of my life, when survival mode took over, my light felt like it flickered out. I didn’t know how to bring it back when I needed it. Sometimes I’d have to wait—through rest, through chance, through time passing—until it returned. The process felt out of my control, like something I couldn’t quite name or hold.

Over time, though, I’ve been learning. I’ve found practices that help me keep track of my light, to tend it and feel it inside me more reliably. It doesn’t mean it’s always blazing—sometimes it’s softer, sometimes stronger—but I can feel it there, glowing. And when I lose touch with it, I have more ways to find it again.

This photo is me at Perkins Memorial Tower, the highest point in Bear Mountain - a beautiful state part near me in Hudson Valley New York. Feeling the air and sun at a high point almost always brings me back to my light. I love this spot because you can drive to the top, meaning you can get there whether you're feeling energetic or not. I've been cultivating spots like this, as well as every day rituals.

Often while cooking, especially in the darker winter months, I've gotten in the habit of lighting a candle that keeps me company in the kitchen. As I pass the candle while I work, I feel this moment of love and ease from it's light. I bring that into my cooking, into the way I bring myself to what I'm doing, and it helps brighten up my light.

That’s what this stage of my life feels like: making my light really mine. Not just something that comes and goes, but something I can hold, return to, and trust.

I wonder—what are the practices or places that help you stay connected to your light? What helps you feel it glow, even when the world feels heavy? I’m still learning how to keep my light with me, how to return to it when I lose track. But I don’t think we’re meant to do this work alone. I wonder what would shift if we made tending to our light—our own and our collective—a shared practice.