There is something infinitely comforting to me in nature's repeated melodies. The calm assurance that morning will always follow night, as spring follows winter. However, there is something magical about the transition itself — like the first white blossom, still covered in snowflakes. Winter merging into spring is almost deserving of its own season. There's a beauty amongst the in-between. To me it feels as though nothing is stirring; everything is slowed, and at the same time, the world is unmistakably alive, breathing with a kind of new life. Often I find this wonder in the passage of night to morning — dawn. It's a fleeting hour where the water still remembers night — retains a little of its quiet, its cool, its stillness, while it is learning to know morning. A twilight duskiness contrasts with the rosy light of daybreak. Both heavenly and solemn. And maybe that's the secret of it — the water isn't choosing between night and morning at all; it's simply holding both, the way I wish I could hold both justice and compassion without needing to let go of either. This, to me, is the whole point. The water represents a swirl of realities that I see in the world. I am reminded of mercy and light interwoven. The morning insists on absolute truth, on light that exposes reality, while the night offers a quiet compassion, a restfulness. Truth doesn't outshine mercy, and mercy doesn't dim truth. On the water's surface, they hold each other. Light's Wake portrays this transition in a way that feels dreamlike. A hazy mix between night and day, both mystical and grounded, the way justice feels like clarity and mercy feels like sleep, and dawn is somehow both at once. This piece is deeply meditative — wrapped up in the glorious in-between. I hope it inspires you to find your own hour like this, a fleeting, delicate moment, where two beauties collide and perfect each other.
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