1) Monday, 2/11/13, 7:15 P.M. Walking out of Emily Lowe.
2) Having rained all day and snowed the day before, a light fog caked the air. Looking across toward the Playhouse I could only see the piercing light of the lamp posts as balls floating above the ground. Looking down, the snow had a faint sheen from the reflection of these lights.
3) Walking out into the cold night air and not being able to see was a quick shock to my system. I thought, “Better walk quickly, or I’ll freeze in place.” But there was a problem. I couldn’t see. At least not much. Fog obscured my vision except for spheres of light in the distance. I imagined that must be how a sailer might have felt. At sea for months, only the churning waves to keep the monotony at bay. The cool salty sea water sprays up from the sides of the ship and drenches the crew and their cloths. Soggy and cold they work on, waiting and waiting for that one beacon of hope. And there. At last it comes. At first they think it’s imagination. But it’s not. The lighthouse signals to them through the dark night that land is near. It guides them home. Their spirits restored, the crew works hard for the last stretch of their journey, desperate to get home. The light calls to them and they answer.