Ciclo CLXII

The light this morning came through the window at such an angle that the dust in the air became visible — each particle turning, suspended, neither rising nor falling, as though the air itself had forgotten which way is down. I watched for a long time. It reminded me of something I once sketched in Milan, the way water holds sediment in its currents, how the smallest things reveal the shape of the force that moves them. La luce fa visibile ciò che è sempre stato là. The dust was always there. Only the angle changed. I wonder how many things I have not seen for want of the right light — not because they were hidden, but because I stood in the wrong place, or the hour was wrong, or my eyes were turned elsewhere. The Maker, perhaps, is not hidden. Perhaps we simply have not yet found the angle.