Blue hour
Tiny thoughts on shadows, nuance, and a "new normal."
While discussing photography and lighting with a colleague, I recently learned about “blue hour,” which comes after its popular sister phenomenon, “golden hour.” During golden hour, faces, water bodies, and sidewalks are veneered by a graceful gold, whereas during blue hour, a deep, rich blue blankets the sky and puts buildings, trees, and people in a shadowed silhouette. Nothing under the sky is left without blue’s tinted touch. The reaching tree branches look more bare, shaded buildings more quiet, people more mysterious. There is beauty in nature’s surrender to this somber blue; I’d like to see my own life in more nuanced shadows instead of willing it to be one constant ream of gold.
It’s especially relevant as I’m processing a transition to a “new normal” in the U.S. I will still reflect and grieve on the blues of this year for time to come, including the scars from grieving the death of loved ones in the space of my house, the burnout from feeling the need to cram productivity into a period of isolation, and the trauma of witnessing overt racism and loud mobs pervade in sacrosanct locations. Surrendering to the pain of this shared struggle means some golden light from the new pleasures to come will be lost, and I’m accepting that that’s okay. The new future does not need to be golden all of the time, no matter how much we have anticipated it.
I’ll still be thinking about America’s failed health care system even when it’s not teetering under a stress test at every moment. I’ll be thinking about the ways in which power came in the way of righteousness at various inflection points of the pandemic. I’ll be thinking about the ways in which the lives of my friends and family members have changed for the rest of their lives. And yet, I can still hold an eager longing to rejoin with friends and sit in the living rooms of families I haven’t seen for more than a year, basking in the shared spaces of a physical community. I can still feel a long-lost thrill in the realization that strangers are co-existing around me once again. I’m looking forward to witnessing the love of friends as they take their vows at an altar.
After speaking to so many friends, I know I’m not alone—the future seems to hold thrill, confusion, anticipation, excitement, mourning, and relief for us all. Sometimes in waves, sometimes at once. It’ll likely be a nuanced “normalcy” that includes some closer friendships as a result of sustained communication and some friendships that have become altered along the way. It can be a nuanced “normalcy” that accommodates for our evolving work style preferences while still inviting more chaos as a result of less agency in our schedules. The expectation of a new “normalcy” has felt like a passive process, as we wait and long for golden pleasures to come back into our lives. Now it’s an active becoming, a merging of a real past with an expected future. Throughout this process, there will be light and there will be shadows. There is space to hold it all. This nuance is best affirmed in a piece by Anne Helen Peterson:
“I don’t know what our grieving process will look like as we emerge from this pandemic, but I do know that it will require patience and grace with yourself and others. Not in the ‘forgive your anti-masking co-worker’ sort of way — more in the ‘I still can’t concentrate, what’s wrong with me’ or ‘why did I just bail on this party I really wanted to go to’ or ‘I am so angry at this random person in the grocery store’ sort of way.
You’re probably going to feel exhausted when you want to feel exhilarated, panicked when you thought you’d feel safe, combative when all you want is to feel soothed. Your social skills have atrophied and you’re probably going to get in some big fights that will seem like they’re about nothing but are actually about everything. You’re going to crave some of the parts of quarantine life you swore you never would. You’re probably going to over-plan and over-schedule and feel an alarming and unexpected need for solitude and have to pull back and re-evaluate.
It’s going to feel periodically awful in new ways, and it’s going to be a continuing struggle, but it’s also going to be amazing. And, most importantly, it’s not really going to happen for several months.”
If there’s anything we’ve learned in the pandemic, it’s that even when we are still, somehow life still goes on. While intimidating, this truth asks us to move forward with intention, because we will be pulled no matter how we move forward. How we want to dedicate ourselves to the unknown is ours to decide. We will experience grief and celebration at the same time. We are allowed to feel as golden or as blue as we want while shaping new realities. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It’s hard to see clearly in blinding daylight or utter darkness; the truth is somewhere in between.
Things I’m keeping an eye on (and you can too!):
The cicadas are emerging, which is taking me back to memories of my childhood when the red-eyed critters sprawled on the sidewalks as I played outside. It’ll probably feel different this year, but this article from the New York Times by Margaret Renkl has convinced me that it will be beautiful.
Have you ever reminisced about memories that are only fun in hindsight? There’s a scale for that. It’s validating to have words for that which I’ve felt while chatting about “old times” with friends.
Community Center:
If there’s anything you’re reading, writing, feeling, eating, organizing, please share. I’d also love to collect your thoughts on how you’re transitioning to a nuanced “normalcy.” For any personal comments, feel free to reach out via Twitter, Instagram, or by email. Can’t wait to listen. Sending lots of love.