The ancient Egyptians are lauded for their ability to construct massive structures lined up perfectly with the stars and planets, without the use of technology. Pyramids in alignment, statues with their faces raised towards the sun.
At our old house, I watched the same sun rise on the horizon, making its way across the sky each morning. Most times, I didn’t pay much attention, but when I did – outside with my hands in the dirt and clay or my feet encased in heavy boots and socks, my eyes were lifted to that spot.
On the horizon were nothing but trees. One stood taller than the rest, a small cross-shape formed from leggy branches. Each morning the sun would creep closer, the days getting shorter and colder. Finally, it would reach the tree on the horizon, and having kissed it, would make its way back.
The sun rises through my kitchen windows here, most mornings too early for me to see it. But in summer, I know it peeks up over my neighbour’s houses, short and squat next to me. In winter, it edges around and says hello over the frozen river. Mid-afternoon, it shines its weak winter light right through the gemstones in the dining room windows.
I don’t know where I’m going yet, don’t know exactly where we will land, I have no idea about the walls that will encase me, what view I will have out my windows. I do know the farm land is good, houses are nestled in hills, the grass is lush and green in summer, and a river runs by to join a bigger one, a familiar one.
Like an Egyptian on the banks of the Nile, ready to build in the desert, I will orient myself to the sun. No tools or technology will be needed when I look out a new window, across a new yard, and find him shining down on me again.
I will lift up my face and smile.