Imagine you're standing at the foot of a hill in the last of the dark.
It's that hour before the dawn when the world hasn't decided yet whether to be blue or grey.
The air is cold in your chest, the grass is wet through your boots and there's that smell the ground has before sunrise, peat and rain and something green.
The hill in front of you is just a shape, a darker dark against the sky, and you cannot see the top of it, you cannot see the path.
You can't even see your own feet, not really, just the pale suggestion of them and the ground giving way somewhere below.
And then, over the shoulder of the hill, where you know the top must be, there is a light Not the sun, not yet.
Something smaller and warmer than that.
A single point of gold low on the ridge.
It doesn't show you the whole way up.
It doesn't light the path or the rocks or the boggy bits you'll have to pick around.
It shows you almost nothing at all.
But it shows you which way is up.
And somehow, that turns out to be enough.
Not enough to run, not enough to see where you'll be in an hour, just enough to take the first step.
And then, from where that step leaves you, the next one.
This is a series about that light.
About the fact that you almost never get to see the whole journey before you begin it.
and about the old, quiet truth that you were never supposed to.
That the light over the next hill, small and far and insufficient as it looks, has always, always been enough to walk by.
Read the full transcript.
Create an account to read the whole episode, search across every transcript, and follow the shows you care about.
Imagine you're standing at the foot of a hill in the last of the dark.
It's that hour before the dawn when the world hasn't decided yet whether to be blue or grey.
The air is cold in your chest, the grass is wet through your boots and there's that smell the ground has before sunrise, peat and rain and something green.
The hill in front of you is just a shape, a darker dark against the sky, and you cannot see the top of it, you cannot see the path.
You can't even see your own feet, not really, just the pale suggestion of them and the ground giving way somewhere below.
And then, over the shoulder of the hill, where you know the top must be, there is a light Not the sun, not yet.
Something smaller and warmer than that.
A single point of gold low on the ridge.
It doesn't show you the whole way up.
It doesn't light the path or the rocks or the boggy bits you'll have to pick around.
It shows you almost nothing at all.
But it shows you which way is up.
And somehow, that turns out to be enough.
Not enough to run, not enough to see where you'll be in an hour, just enough to take the first step.
And then, from where that step leaves you, the next one.
This is a series about that light.
About the fact that you almost never get to see the whole journey before you begin it.
and about the old, quiet truth that you were never supposed to.
That the light over the next hill, small and far and insufficient as it looks, has always, always been enough to walk by.