It's my favorite time of the day when the sun hasn't yet set. There's perhaps another hour of daylight left. The cloudless sky mutes itself, drawing back its rays of light so that you can really see the leaves, rich in their greenness. The pinks of faded cherry blossoms, the auburn of seedlings scattered on sidewalks, their colors pop in the approaching dusk.
It's the liminal part of the day, the threshold between activity and rest. The work day ends, ushering in the evening, and the pace slackens.
The mind unfetters, letting daytime's clear-eyed logic fall away. Its surface, no longer ruffled by the predictable waves of logic, now lies calm. It is open - expectant. Perhaps, it is the light, luminous and soft, that imbues the mind with this openness. I wait, my breath is bated.
The house is quiet; today, it is enshrouded in fog. A bit of yellowed light filters in through the kitchen window as I stand there making matcha.
I carry the bowl of the steaming liquid to my well-favored spot in the house. The cats follow, arranging themselves near me. My mind lies open, ready to receive. Seen through an impressionistic lens, the ordinary becomes extraordinary.