Sunlight

Murray Hill Railroad Station, Queens, New York. Not the most likely place for a mystical experience, I know. But mystical experiences rarely happen the way we expect them to.

If you’ve ever been to Murray Hill, you’ll know what I mean. Grey dominates. Today, as on most days, grey skies echo the grey concrete of the platform and walls and surround the passengers in grey apathy. Even the snow has turned into a grey slush. My feet shuffle me towards the end of the platform where I can shield myself from inquisitive eyes and friendly words.

I feel the sunlight even before I see it: a shaft of gold caressing the grey, transforming it. I look around, greedy, desirous, before staking it as my own, and lurch my body forward to claim it. People ooze around me, but I hold tight to this little patch of gold.  The trains come and go but I am held captive by the pure molten light that shines down on me. I close my eyes and bask in its warmth, almost as if it is a living entity imbuing me with energy.  Time is suspended in the light’s tiny bright fragments, and I fuse with them. Up, up, up we float, back towards the sun.

I will get onto one of those trains, too.

Soon.

But for now, I remain suspended: in time and space, in my own little cocoon of warmth, sunlight, and contentment here in the middle of New York City.