Upon reflection, the phenomenon of light can serve as a conduit for memory, particularly in places that resonate deeply with our personal narratives. This contemplation began with an unusual experience in the Smoky Mountains a year after my father's passing. My mother and I found ourselves gazing at a shaft of colored light that appeared in the midair, blues and greens swirling as we moved. This insight wasn't captured on a screen or in a photograph— it was tangible and real, yet wholly inexplicable.
Initially, we tried to rationalize the apparition. After all, skeptics may dismiss such occurrences as mere lens smudges or camera artifacts. But the fact remains that we both witnessed it with our own eyes, independent of any device. When it vanished, it left us with even more questions. Every April since, around the anniversary of my father's death, this phenomenon reappears, no matter where I am—different places, different devices, but always just as fleeting and inexplicable.
My upbringing involved traveling to breathtaking locations with my family, my parents instilling in me the importance of shared experiences. I recall being taken to Stonehenge at the tender age of eight. My father's words stuck with me: he expressed how he had long dreamed of visiting this iconic site, and now, at the age of 37, he was finally there. He turned to me, underlining the significance of my visit and the knowledge I would carry forward into adulthood. He posed a profound question: "Who is the richer?"
The essence of that question has lingered with me throughout my life, driving me to appreciate experiences as they unfold. Recently, I found myself at Carhenge in Nebraska, a quirky homage to Stonehenge created from an array of vintage cars. Its absurdity concealed an undeniable beauty, especially at sunrise when the first rays illuminated the structures. Being alone in such a space allowed me to witness the scene transform as light worked its magic—a slow, mesmerizing shift that involved both the cars and the environment.
For 90 minutes, I stood captivated as the light morphed: the colors shifting from grey to bright amber, shadows lengthening, then brightening again. Each change felt like a new discovery. I grasped the impulse of those who might stop, take a photo, and leave, but I realized that Carhenge demanded more than a brief encounter to truly appreciate its essence.
As I moved around the site, I noticed a soft green circle appearing in my photographs, consistent from various angles. After a brief moment, that light too vanished without explanation. Strange parallels unfolded—much like the experience with my mother. The field echoed with the silence of introspection, casting a backdrop to consider the history and intention behind Carhenge. Built by Jim Reinders in 1987 as a tribute to his father, it took the form of a stone circle, not waiting for permission but cultivating a personal expression instead.
This visit coincided poignantly with the anniversary of my father's passing. Standing in that Nebraska field, the sun casting warm light on the vehicles, that lingering question re-emerged. My father would likely have admired this idiosyncratic effort to recreate an ancient monument with cars, appreciating its raw authenticity. There’s a certain richness in solitude that fosters connection—much like the empty surroundings at Carhenge, devoid of the commercial bustle of tourist attractions.
My perspective on my father’s question has evolved over time. Perhaps it’s those who embrace moments of stillness, allowing light to reinterpret surroundings, who emerge with the deeper understanding. My father’s spirit, I felt, was present in that frost-coated field as I witnessed the transformation elicited by the light.
Carhenge proved to be more than just a quirky site. It tied together threads of my past and present, encapsulating memory, loss, and newfound appreciation for the fleeting beauty created by light. This encounter remains imprinted in my mind, reminding me that slowing down enables a richer engagement with both our memories and the places we cherish.
In those shared moments of light and loss, I found a new narrative woven into the fabric of my experiences—a reminder that being present often allows us to discover whispers of the past that linger in the air.
