I was amazed that something so simple could offer unexpected solace, especially since I had given up on it. I had bought the teardrop prism – about the size and shape of a fresh fig – this summer, stealing the idea from the decor of the tiny house we rented for a week at the shore. The skylight prism there provided a dazzling spectacle every evening at the start of sundown.

My prism wasn’t working. I had tried it in several different sunny windows at different times of the day, but got nothing. In defeat, I hung it in the only window in our study, conceding that the blinds in the window would probably thwart any potential light waves that could be useful. It wouldn’t matter anyway, I had already tried the prism in that window with the blinds up with no positive outcome.

Slow things take time, a friend of mine sometimes reminds me.

Slow things take time.

Weeks later, summer break had waned to nothing and the start of an uncertain school year loomed in the immediate future. Our schedule was to be vastly different this year as were to be our routines, modes of teaching, habits of interacting, and our confidence in remaining healthy on the job. Nothing seemed the same. Nonetheless, I went upstairs to get ready for school – at least that was familiar.

Entering the study, I twirled open the blinds and sun cascaded into the room. A glint bounced off the prism, and light pebbles in every color spilled onto the four walls. I gave the prism a gentle nudge with my finger, and orbs of light swirled around the perimeter in quiet splendor.

The low rising sun of encroaching fall was perfectly angled for the prism to do its trick.

Although much was unknown, the laws of light refraction were still reassuringly intact. That was suddenly of great comfort.

That, and remembering slow things take time.