I grew up, mostly, in the woods in North Georgia, and spent a lot of time running around those woods. I spent even more time in the woods when I was in college, working as a counselor at a summer camp.
When it's sunny, and in the summer when there are leaves, the sunlight filters down through the trees and creates cool dappled patterns on the ground, as well as making obvious beams that are, themselves, rather beautiful when you see them from just the right angle.
There's not a specific word for that light, dancing through a maze of leaves to make its way to the ground, in English, but Japanese has one: komorebi.
It's a beautiful word for a beautiful thing. The interplay of shadows and light, the balance between the shade and the sun.
And if we choose to take it as such, it can remind us that even in dark times, the light - the good - filters through the bad to reach the (figurative) ground, in this case our souls.
We can't escape the shadows of this world. We can't escape the news that depresses us, or the horrible things we see happening, or the pandemic around us and other illnesses that we've yet to find cures for.
But we can choose to see the beauty of the light; the hope and the love and the kindnesses that filter through the canopy of the dark. We can choose to see the sun, even when we may be standing in the shadow.
We can choose Christ; his love and mercy and the teachings that bring us peace, even when it seems like the light isn't having any direct effect on us and those we care about.
(And of course, we can see the literal komorebi; if you're walking through the woods, it really is worth taking a few minutes to watch the way the sunlight dances through the trees.)
