đ Seven OâClock
What an hour of daylight changes
âItâs not what you look at that matters, itâs what you see.â âHenry David Thoreau
âThe eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of lightâ (Matthew 6:22, ESV).
Saturday evening at seven, I drove home along the Eau Gallie Causeway. The Indian River Lagoon was a flat gray strip beneath an overcast sky. Pelicans sat somewhere on the water, invisible. I knew they were there the way I know most things about this route: vaguely, from repetition, without actually looking. The radio filled the silence, and I barely registered the turn onto my street.
Sunday evening, same causeway, same time on the dashboard clock. Weâd lost an hour overnight to Daylight Saving Time, and the trade was lopsided in our favor. Gold light lay across the lagoon like hammered metal, and three pelicans rode the surface in silhouette, absolutely still. The water held a color I donât have a name for, somewhere between copper and rose. I slowed the car without meaning to.
Nothing had changed except the light. Same water, same birds, same concrete bridge Iâve crossed a thousand times. Saturday, it was background. Sunday, it stopped me.
Last week, this column explored what we walk past without seeing. The answer, Iâve come to think, is almost everything. We build routines that carry us efficiently through our days, and efficiency has a cost. The causeway becomes a commute. The neighborâs yard becomes the property line. The sky at dusk becomes the space between the office and dinner. We stop seeing because weâve already decided thereâs nothing new to see.
Then the clocks spring forward, and familiar things look startlingly new. The house three doors down has coral shutters Iâve never registered. The live oak at the corner throws a long shadow clear across the street. My wife pointed out a great blue heron standing by the lake along our road, patient as a statue, and I realized Iâve been walking past that lake for years without once glancing into it. The bird had probably been there all along.
We didnât travel anywhere. We didnât try harder. Different light fell on the same world, and I saw what I had been missing.
This is what the Lenten tradition attempts, for those who practice it. You give up a habit, a comfort, a screen, and everything that remains looks different in the cleared space. You notice the shape of what you were holding because your hands are empty. The coffee smells different when the phone isnât next to it. Anyone can try this, regardless of tradition, because the principle is simple. When we clear away clutter, whatever stays behind becomes visible.
Most of us wait for something dramatic, a diagnosis or a loss, before we finally pay attention. Daylight Saving Time is gentler. One hour shifts, the sun reaches further into the evening, and we realize how much we hadnât finished seeing. The lagoon was there on Saturday, too. The pelicans were there. I just couldnât see them.
Sometimes, a different light is all we need. Try stepping outside this evening an hour later than usual and see what the extra sunlight shows you.
Next week, the view from a longer distance, and what familiar life looks like across the span of one more year.
This article appeared in FLORIDA TODAY as Daylight Saving Time helps us see world anew | Spirituality Today.