My relationship with the Sun
Sun gazing, two summer solstices a year and why I don’t like to turn my back on that which sustains me.
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Hello friends. I am currently en route to Lisbon with the intention of spending the next few days eating my bodyweight in bifanas and pastéis de natas. But fear not, business as usual will remain here on A Day Well Spent.
Did you know Lisbon is in the top five European capitals to receive the most hours of sunshine each year?1 On that note, I present to you today’s piece.
I hope you enjoy this post. As always, thank you for being here and see you down in the comments section.
Learnings from Les, the Sun gazer
On a spectacularly sunny and mild day in early October last year, I was out gathering lush second flush nettles in my local park in the late afternoon. My supermarket bag-for-life was almost full when I was gingerly approached by a man, seemingly risen from a nearby patch of vegetation. My guard immediately and unnecessarily went up (I blame the media) but once he started talking, I found myself listening intently.
The man introduced himself as Les. He was in his 50s, his accent placing him within the M25 for most of his life. He had a kind face with deep-set laughter lines creasing to his ears and eyes so pellucid and icy blue it was like looking into the shallow waters of an Arctic beach.
He had come over to commend me on my nettle picking and cheerily told me if I ate from nature’s wild larder regularly, I’d probably never get sick (I was liking him already). He also began to explain what he’d been doing flat on his back in that patch, something he comes to the park to do every sunny day of the year, something I had never heard of before. He had been Sun gazing.
Sun gazing is a meditative practice that involves introducing sunlight into your eyes when the Sun's UV index is at its lowest points of the day - sunrise and sunset. Les told me this ritual has been around for more than 2000 years and practiced by many ancient civilizations from India, to the Aztecs, to the Egyptians. I looked it up, he was right.
The idea is you increase your exposure to this oblique light by incremental amounts each day - adding about 10 seconds at a time - until you can absorb the full half hour either side of sunrise and sunset. Les told me doing so helped focus his attention, clear his mind, gave him more energy, helped him sleep better and promoted healing.
“Obviously, you shouldn’t do this now starting from zero,” he advised. “You’d do serious damage to your eyes. But after lots of practice, I now stare directly at the Sun for about 45 minutes every day”.
Whilst I’m unlikely to be adopting this practice any time soon (and please don’t try this at home - if you stare at the Sun and go blind don’t @ me), I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself once we’d parted ways after this literal eye-opening encounter.
Because with every fibre of my being, I totally got where Les was coming from.
Operating in two modes: before Sun and after Sun
Frequent access to direct sunshine is so integral to my wellbeing, I sometimes wonder if I’m part reptilian. Whether it’s because I’ve only ever lived in a country routinely under cloud cover, because I am borne from warm weather island blood (Mauritius and Cyprus), or because I’m a Leo, I am a solar-powered entity operating on just two settings: before Sun and after Sun.
During the former I am a groggy, fuzzy-headed shadow of my optimal self, the LED indicator of my energy levels blinking with the threat of total shutdown. But once some part of my skin is exposed to direct sunlight, I’m plugged into the electricity grid of the Universe and find myself recharged.
I become lucid, energised and my mind clears. I think this is why it takes me so long to get going in the mornings; I am barely operating before 10:00am and I’m at my peak around the same time the Sun reaches its peak in the sky at Solar Noon (which interestingly, is rarely at midday).
I don’t seek out the Sun to obtain a tan, although it’s a by-product I welcome. I seek out the Sun because I need it. In the same inexplicable way my phone feels heavier once I unplug it after filling up its battery tank, I feel more substantial - more of form - after filling up mine.
Making the most of every winter photon
There are few finer feelings than the first unfiltered and warm sunshine of early spring on the backs of closed eyelids after weeks having gone without.
I am that person who will strip down to their pants and sit just inside an open kitchen back door on a sunny February day where, sheltered by the glass, the temperature of this spot can reach a balmy 20C (68F). My husband will come downstairs in five jumpers and two scarves, arms thrown up in disbelief, lamenting at why the door is wide open again when it’s 10C (50F) outside and there’s frost on the grass.
When gifted with a sunny day in the depths of winter, I will wrap up in thermals and knitwear and sit outside basking in the limpid light like a lizard on a rock. I would always rather be outside and wrapped up in winter sunshine than inside a stuffy and centrally-heated living room.
Two summer solstices a year
My antidote to the low light levels and minimal daylight hours of winter in the Northern Hemisphere is to leave; for the past two years I’ve spent six weeks in South America over December and January (when they are having their summer) and I’ll be doing the same this year.
My work and circumstances afford me the ability to do this and I am so grateful for it. So, as long as I am able to, it’s an annual solar pilgrimage I intend to keep making.
I venture to these sunny shores for extended periods and masquerade it as ‘slow travel’. The real reason I need to be away for weeks is because every other day of that time is allocated to doing nothing other than unashamedly lying flat out under intense sun on a balcony or roof terrace, for hours.2 It’s a lot to fit in.
I don’t read, I don’t listen to music, I don’t need to be near water - I do nothing other than sweat like a beast and let the heat penetrate into the very marrow of my bones. Sunbathing is one of my most favourite things to do in the world.
Turning our backs on that which sustains us
I will always cross the road to walk on the side of the street where the Sun is and I will interrupt conversations to ask ‘do you mind if we just move over there’, then lead us into the light.
I was recently on a train that went past a station platform on which many people were stood. My eyes locked on a girl whose wavelength read at a familiar frequency.