Of course you can fall in love with light; it has a quality of mood that both demands and rewards attention. Check the sky at dawn and hit the road, and the hours dictate the feel of the sun in your eyes, or the warmth on your shoulders, or the full body assault of a bright summer day. Later the magic hour entrances as light gives way to night. But what about the shade? Isn’t that worthy of consideration? I’ve always appreciated shade as a concept, but I didn’t fall in love with it quite as intensely as I have since moving to the Lowcountry. And that’s because of the nature of this heat.
The reality of the combined force of temperature and humidity brings a dimension of experience to being outside around here like nowhere else I’ve ever been. Forget about the tropics, southwestern deserts, bayou country, or the swampy Potomac lowlands—this here spot has heat that grabs your whole body in a headlock and infuses confusion, an inside out feeling of elemental exposure. Air thicker than water, fire-roasted upon delivery, ultraviolet rays like smote justice for the sin of venturing outdoors… that’s where shade comes to the rescue.
Shade has a quality of mood too, an embrace like the neighbor who’s right on time with a kind word or an ice cream sandwich. Research suggests being in shaded areas reduces stress, promotes relaxation, improves mood, and enhances sociability. As AI puts it, “By incorporating shade into our daily lives, we can improve our quality of life and contribute to our overall well-being.” To this I would add we can survive the South Carolina Lowcountry summer.
When I walk the dogs these days my route is dictated by the shady circumstances at that time of day. Most of the time the alley that runs behind the houses just east of me has plenty of shade, thanks to the mossy oaks. I can stroll there without worrying about spontaneous combustion of me or my furry friends.
Where it gets tricky is leaving this tunnel-esque domain for the great yonder of a longer walk. I’m just a half mile from an entry point to the Spanish Moss Trail and another nice stretch of shade, but as the saying goes it’s hell in that hallway before the next door opens (or in this case the shade returns). When I leave the protection of shade I’m immediately blasted and enveloped by relentless bright-white heat. At times I have this image in mind of racing across a minefield to safety.
It’s in the strong divergence of managing okay while in the shade and then being revealed in the scorching sunlight that promotes a woozy disconnection. It reminds me of the feeling I get when I’m gazing at a magnificent painting by Caravaggio, that master of chiaroscuro, the over the top bold contrast of light & dark in a painting like The Crucifixion of Saint Andrew. The whole composition of my walk changes when I lose the shade and I’m somehow threatened with a brightness that offers no mercy.
I’ve become adept at identifying pockets of shade, studying the canvas of the sidewalk inside the frame of roads, trees, and houses. I believe that the world around me is an affirming place, and the universe provides ample opportunities for wonder and awe. But when I’m feeling the weight of heat permeating from every direction, feeling crucified on a cross of humidity, the harshness sharpens into a point: melting is not reserved for just candles and ice cream left too long on a picnic table. We humans have a melting point and it’s approximately 3 miles into a late afternoon trek in a “real feel” of 107 degrees.
Later, sufficiently hydrated and solidly reassembled, I thank the Gods of breeze and tip my hat to ice and water, what a lovely combination. I scan the dying light and marvel at the invention of air conditioning. There is another heat advisory coming tomorrow, but it’s going to be okay. The relief I believe in is made in the shade.
