My bedroom is pleasantly chilly, and I’m getting the impression I’m stealing a glimpse of a secret world, where my room opens up its petals as the daylight filters through the slits of the window blinds.

I rarely see this. The sky is overcast. The air conditioner is humming along on LO. The white Honeywell oscillator at the foot of my bed is stiffly but somehow expectantly facing the A/C, waiting to be turned on. Dark, striped button-up shirts line up dutifully in my dark, small closet. The large IKEA wardrobe looms uselessly across from me, taking up space. It dwarfs the bureau, burdened by books I’ve yet to read, books I have read, journals I’ve neglected, coins, chocolate bars, allergy pills, my wallet, car keys, and other remnants, mementoes or souvenirs of activities over the last few months. There’s my La-Z-Boy in the corner: a big, awkward, fluffy shelf for flung clothes and magazines when I am not using it to sit and meditate.

I am lying on my bed, its soft red blanket inviting and warm. The light here in the daytime turns these things into live creatures, each with a vibrant life of its own. The daylight reacts and gives resonance among these seemingly inanimate objects. The overcast sky is slowly giving way to the powerful sun, as swaying ribbons of light dance on my bed before me, shadows of the tree leaves outside my window waving in a damp, muggy breeze.

The light is smothered by clouds, and for a few moments I wonder if I’ll ever see it again: I’m left with the dull red blanket, and the after-image of the shadow of the window blinds. There is a stillness, a sobering calm. The A/C continues to hum. Then the light appears again, brighter than before, wider than before, deeper and broader, covering half my bed and all of my journal and the leg of my Columbia shorts.

I look around and soak up the stillness. And I realize this has been here all along. It’s here when I am away at work. It’s here when I’m here at night, under the halogen light afixed to the ceiling, and amid the glow of the red lamp atop my bedside table. It’s here when I sleep and when I make love, when I am frustrated or overwhelmed.

Wherever and whenever I need it: still, it is here.