It turned so cold so quickly that my California bones chatter within me. The garden is crispy with ice underfoot, the plants are silent and still, gathering strength to endure. I myself am laid up, hunkered under a down comforter waiting out a virus that has scraped my throat raw and pounds in my head.
But the garden reaches out to me anyway, as the winter light casts a moving pattern on the opposite wall and I am fascinated. Captivated. I want to capture its dynamic and mimic it in paint, yarn, or paper.
I untangle myself from the sheet, blanket and earbuds and scramble from my nest to catch the shifting shadows on my camera phone. I cast no shadow of my own, even when the camera is held up to capture the moving patterns.
I return to the warm cocoon of bed and realize the movement has stopped. The static pattern on the wall is just as delightful as the moving one. I jump back up, but try as I might I cannot get a shot of this pattern without my own shadow interfering. The best light lasted only a moment. Less than a moment.
The perfect light, the perfect access passed so swiftly. I'm grateful I was paying attention, and grateful to enjoy the garden's reach from within my warm bedroom. But the shifting light reminds me to seize the minute. Carpe minutam--minutam being the smallest fraction of time in Latin.
God writes His love letter to us and reminds us that now is the time of God's favor, now is the day of salvation.
Now is the minutam.
* Not the pattern itself, but the part of the garden making the pattern. This site does not have the capacity to upload a video. Yet.
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