Lights glow with warmth, caring

When you live up high with a view you can track goings on that might surprise the people being “spied” upon. Kind of like that nosy neighbor peering out the window in the early morning dark. And lights tell the story.

The shift must be over at the lumber mill. There goes a succession of headlights on Dufort Road.

OK, that car’s crossing the bridge over the Pend Oreille. Is it turning right or left at the mill? The traffic light at Highway 2 and Highway 57 has stopped blinking yellow — must be 6 a.m.

Those taillights that just flashed on are at the house with the horses — he’s warming his truck for work.

Whoa, lots of car lights cresting the hill into Priest River for this early.

Those new people in the woods over there sure put in a bright yard light.

Wonder where those big rigs are going heading east on Highway 2.

Uh-oh, flashing red — somebody got stopped by the police.

About time for the school bus.

And so it goes. My husband, upon hearing such pondering, shook his head in a bewildered way and said, “You need a vacation.” But honestly, it’s kind of reassuring to see the lights of town, and the mill, and the travelers out on the road. To feel the connection — even briefly and from a distance — with other people going about the business of life.

I read an article recently titled “The Loneliness Epidemic.” It’s a fact that those who are “more socially connected live longer.” There is an actual measure, the UCLA Loneliness Scale, researchers use in establishing how lonely a person is.

One place analysts hope to experiment with solutions for loneliness is in rural communities. This is where it is said “ … your friends and neighbors are looking out for you.”

I don’t know the people whose lights I’m watching in the wee morn hours — at least I don’t think I do — but I still feel a sense of kinship, even if they’re just “passing through.” We are every one of us awake in the pre-dawn dark sharing the same bit of turf. Each with our own aspirations and anxieties and plans.

And I hope, as I’m silently wishing them well in their day, in their life, that if they knew I was watching they wouldn’t see me as that nosy neighbor but maybe a fellow early bird looking out for them.