The Hours

    As I woke up from my nap about twenty minutes ago, I looked at the clock, saw the time (3:20), and felt an immediate response to the late afternoon.  It's the kind that I've had before without talking about it.  Today, I'd like to say something, however, because the hours, like the seasons, have always had a meaning for me.  "Meaning" isn't exactly the right word; at lease not if that has to imply "rational meaning."  "Emotional significance" is closer to the truth.
     The time between two and four has a relaxing quality.  It's not only relaxing but familiar and homey.  It's a comfortable chair to sit down in and watch the afternoon clouds drift through the afternoon sky.  It doesn't summon me to do anything.  It holds me in its arms so I can take a long, comfortable nap.  And the longer, the better.  
     Five o'clock, on the other hand, is very different.  It's mildly disturbing.  In fact, I don't even like to see that time represented in paintings. (I'm thinking of a particular painting by Corot, whose work I otherwise like very much.)  The time when the sun seems to be losing strength -- and its light has a little gray, a little fatigue mixed with it -- drains something out of me.  But as six o'clock turns into seven, I become calm and optimistic again.
     Seven o'clock in the morning, by contrast, is a very tender time.  I remember once thinking of it as a Benedictine time, as though a monastic bell were ringing through it.  I love to walk with a seven o'clock sky over my head.  The divine presence is very close, and it's all sufficient.  I don't have to do anything.  I'm perfect just as I am. 
     Eight a.m. is cheerful but it opens a doorway into chores.  I'm happy to do them and to see them getting done.  Nine o'clock is neither here nor there, and ten is just nine's older sister.  Eleven is a bit of a trough that I slip down into, but twelve is hopping along with its promise of lunch.  One p.m. has a child's freshness and brightness, and then there's two, which is where I started today, so I'll stop here.