The light is beautiful Monday morning in my bedroom as I finally open my eyes. I find myself enveloped by a concrete ceiling, three white plastered walls and reflections of sunlight at a comfortable duvet cover and an iron bedroom doorpost. At two instances the bright white light is broken up in an array of rainbow colors, caused by the way sunbeams are broken through the sliding double glass of the small bedroom window.
At 8 am my youngest daughter is walking in almost as if she’s set on fire, the sun reflected by her white blond hair that bright. She clenches her eyes, turning her head away slightly as to not be overwhelmed and blinded by the magnificent sunlight, ‘I am hungry’. I ask her to join me in bed for a minute. She doubtfully agrees: ‘I am hungry’. But she smiles a lot as usual and tells me her hundred little stories. I yawn, unable to pull myself out of the reflection zone.
I sent her, happy with the full permission of getting the strawberries out of the fridge herself, down the stairs. Within the time it takes me to write the above, she’s next to my bed again: ‘what’s more for breakfast?’ I have to get it over with. I want to resign on life. But in fact there’s nothing to resign upon. Bits of gray concrete, stretches of immaculately white plaster, possibly showing an overwhelming bright white reflection and as luck has it, that bright white reflection breaks up, momentarily unveiling it’s true colors. The wandering mind, the coloring light, no more then reflections.