Shifting Light and a Natural Sense of Direction

I awoke this morning to brilliant sunshine, but when I looked out, the car's glossy surface was beaded with water. The weather has changed since yesterday's warm still perfection. Now the grass blows with each gust of wind, making whispering sounds.

As I drove toward Camrose in the late afternoon, the cloud formations kept altering before my eyes. At any given moment the sky was full of an astonishing concoction of clouds of every shape and colour imaginable.

At one point I thought I saw a twister in the west, but the shape soon softened. The concentration of cloud morphed into a series of visible rain showers, backlit by the westering sun. Then I passed from sun to shadow and found myself  driving through a shower. Opening the vents wide, I breathed in the alluring fragrance of wet plants.

By the time I returned to Viking, the sky was empty, fading to an evening blue. The passing ponds were the deep blue of lapis lazuli.

Leaving Camrose, I got off on a tangent and sensed immediately that I had done so. I went to Tim Horton's to ask for directions, but none of the clerks knew the way. Then the man who was waiting behind me told me how to get on the right road. He was born in Viking, he said.

This incident reminded me of a family story about my natural sense of direction. When I was about 7, and walking in Edmonton with my mother, I kept telling her we were going in the wrong direction but she wouldn't believe me.

Distressed by Mom's inexplicable refusal to turn around, I stopped on the sidewalk and pointed back the way we had come. "The train station is that way!" I insisted. As Mom hesitated, a woman stopped and said, "Your daughter is right. The station is that way."