MORELIA'S SYMPHONY OF LIGHT AND SHADOW

MORELIA’S SYMPHONY OF LIGHT AND SHADOW

     By Travis M. Whitehead

     The sun eases slowly toward the west as I stand in front of El Revoltijo, a restaurant across Avenida Madero from the Cathedral of Morelia. Warm golden sunlight slips slowly across the west side of the cathedral, turning the pink stone into revolving shades of orange and yellow. A pigeon flies through bands of sun and shadow into an archway of the cupola where a bell rings. A chilly wind sweeps down Avenida Madero. Bands of shadow slip slowly across the arches, catching a trace of the bronze bell before it’s overtaken by more kisses of the glimmer of night. Westward light illuminates towers cloaked in shadow and song; a corner of a tower, the hem of a saint’s stone cloak catches the sun as it crawls away.

     I stumble into the evening as the sun cascades into the belly of the night. I’m running,

chasing flashes of light before they recede beyond my reach. It’s like trying to catch the

wind, a useless enterprise, but once in awhile I can hear its whisper, and that’s all I need

to keep going. 

     Up El Nigromante, shafts of dissipating light race across the eaves. Pediments and

flowered ornaments are replaced by warm floodlight; it spreads over the rough walls,

sending ribbons of shadow that clash with the evading sun; window balconies of

midnight metal sweep away in gentle arcs frozen by the hands of old artisans.

     On the west side of the street, the stone of the Palacio Clavijero recedes into a cool darkness, evoking a mesmerizing purple. The dream of night is taking effect, injecting its narcotic trance into my consciousness. I look up and see pale blue, lavender and chartreuse flying across the sky, releasing themselves from the light of day.

      There’s not much time left. I race up to Allende Street, where Melchor Ocampo once lived. There’s a rich quiet blue creeping in from the jagged tear of bright light burning above deep purple clouds in the west, pouring up Allende Street. This street runs east to west, and the blazing play of gold on stone walls gives way to lanterns casting shades of darkness, etching themselves into my memory, conjuring a forgotten dream, a lost piece of identity.

     I’m running through the streets along Allende, through the fading doorways of my dreams, chasing shafts of light dancing across time, I’m running  along La Corregidora where the Templo de San Agustin rises high enough to still catch a glimpse of the rapidly disappearing day. The sun creeps across scarred stone, blemished columns with etched flowers, exhausted stained glass and brutal towers saddened by time’s eternal gaze. It creeps across the fountain and blemished cantera whose beauty marks sealed their fate long ago.

     I can only believe that the architects of this city were creating a stage for the plays of light and shadow following the stars, tuned like a fine Stradivarius, the clouds improvising their own rendition, time molding its symphony as wind and rain shape the stones; the passage of time releases its character, gives birth to its own personality, etching its texture.

     It’s this play of light and shadow at the break of dawn and nightfall that reveals the shadows of the soul, a forgotten heartbeat, a dance that lies dormant beneath waking and dreaming, yet in those wandering shadows between night and day, there’s a glimpse of the sleeping poets in us all. In this city, the stone walls have created a rare doorway where eternity offers a reflection of itself; the play of light and shadow lives throughout the night, and the poet dances, the poet sings, the soul harmonizes with the forgotten harmonies forever possessed, but seldom realized.