Tag

darkness

Solstice 2020

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I’ve posted about the Winter Solstice almost every single year.

It has always brought me great comfort. Yes, it means we head into the winter, which for many people represents cold and darkness. But actually, this Solstice is a turn toward light.

December 21 is the shortest, darkest day of the year. But the next day, and the next, and the next, we begin gaining minutes of light every single day. And after a few weeks, I always notice – oh my goodness, it’s staying lighter out later.

This year we NEED light. We need hope. We can’t bear any more darkness. And so, on this day, cherish this piece of information: this is it. This is the darkest it’s going to get. We made it. We are headed towards the light.

Towards the Light
(author unknown)

By moonlight,
or starlight,
or in the sun’s bright rays,
I journey,
guiding my way
by keeping
to the light
as best I can.
Sometimes all seems dark,
then I remember
how the poppy turns its head,
follows the sun’s passage across the sky,
then rests in night’s cool shadows,
bowing in thanks
to whatever power
makes the stalk
stand straight and strong,
drawing deep from its roots
a wine dark love.
In moonlight,
the garden glows,
silvering the poppies.
And even by starlight
you can tell
shades of darkness
if you try.
So do not lose heart
when vision dims.
Journey forth
as best you can-
bloom when you are able,
rest when you must,
keep faith,
keep always
towards the light.

Solstice.

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I tried to write a new post. I really did. But I have nothing to say about Solstice that I don’t say every other year. (Previous years are here, here, here, and here.)

Last year’s post said:

Turns out that despite how much I love writing a new solstice post each year, my thoughts don’t change much.

Last year, I wrote:

The Winter Solstice is here.

Oh, how I love this day.

Today, after six long months of turning towards the darkness, we began to turn towards the light.

We gain a minute of light each day – and in a time where life can feel very dark, each minute makes a difference.

The earth begins to propel us towards the light, just as the waves in the ocean propel you to shore. We now ride the wave of the earth, as it cradles us and gently moves us towards hope, and energy, and life.

All of those are still truths I hold firmly in my heart.

And now, there are sunflowers too, in my head and on the wallpaper of my phone, reminding me that even before solstice, even before the world pushes us toward the light, we can move ourselves. We can stretch and grow so that even in our darkest moments we are always, always, always reaching for the sun and any light we can find.

This year, my beautiful baby has been my light. When darkness has surrounded me, in any manner, her smile, her laugh, her pure essence and existence has been all I needed. She isn’t bothered by the darkness. She just lives each moment in the here and now. If we are outside, she’s happy, but when it’s dark at 4pm, it doesn’t faze her in the slightest. It doesn’t stop her from playing with her toys, eating her solid food, giving me hugs, or trying to crawl and stand up. It’s funny – motherhood has simultaneously made me a crazier/busier, AND a more mindful person. We could all learn a lot from a 7-month-old.

Happy Solstice.

Towards the Light (author unknown)

By moonlight,
or starlight,
or in the sun’s bright rays,
I journey,
guiding my way
by keeping to the light
as best I can.
Sometimes all seems dark,
then I remember
how the poppy turns its head,
following the sun’s passage across the sky,
then rests in night’s cool shadows,
bowing in thanks
to whatever power
makes the stalk
stand straight and strong,
drawing deep from its roots
a wine dark love.
In moonlight,
the garden glows,
silvering the poppies.
And even by starlight
you can tell shades of darkness
if you try.
So do not lose heart
when vision dims.
Journey forth
as best you can—
bloom when you are able,
rest when you must,
keep your faith,
keep always
towards the light.

Darkness is coming

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Oh, you guys.

We turn the clocks back on Saturday night, and you know what that means.

The days get shorter.

It is dark by 4:30. Even by the time our work day ends, when last period ends at 2:23 – it is clear that the day is nearly over. The world becomes muted. Faded. Quick, and yet too long. Fuzzy. Disjointed. Out of sync. Wrong.

I hate it.

I try – I really do try – to be positive, to at least not let things get to me. Oh, I know. It will pass, we go through this every year, get exercise, use your light box.

I’m not looking for strategies.

Because the truth is – it just is really crappy. And not just for me, but for so many people I know.

I feel the lack of light in my bones. Even on a day when I race home from work to get in a half hour walk in the light, the fact is that it gets dark at 4:30, and then I sit on my couch, and I feel it weighing on me. Not even as a depression. But as a heaviness. A compression. A sluggishness. An I just want to nap every afternoon feeling. A million compensatory strategies do not substitute for that beautiful, natural, rhythm of sunsets not happening until 7:30.

This fall I have spent an enormous amount of time and energy into eliminating the internal darkness within me.

I am so thankful I did it now, as I will be that much lighter when the external darkness comes.

It will still be hard.

I am wired to need light. Not bright shining, glaring sun, but light. Sun.

But. So.

All we can do, really, is wait. Wait the 7 weeks or so until my most favorite day of the year – the Winter Solstice. Where we finally turn toward the light. Where no, the darkness doesn’t end, and the yes, cold permeates our bones, but we see the warm, lit path, sparkling with garlands of fairy lights, and we move towards it, knowing it comes out somewhere beautiful.

Goodbye, my beautiful sun. I hope you enjoy your rest. I will miss you – your true self – desperately, and will cherish every moment, however muted and fake-seeming, that I get of you during the short days. I will hold your radiance inside me, as best I can, and I will make my own light. I will miss you every moment and I will bloom again, as the flowers do, when you finally return.

tree-479174_1920 (1)

(image: shockhollywood/pixabay)