This time of year there is so little natural light that many wake hours before the sun and work hours after it descends. But we living creatures can adjust to anything, even find solace in it. The intimacy, the privacy granted by these dark hours in early morning: it’s time for settling back into pillows with quieter projects, hot drinks steaming cold rooms, small lights casting out still-prevailing nights. Well. Such time is to be cherished once we adjust to its protocol. We grasp why this is the holiest time of year, why we make festivals for these lights. With their help, into the mystic we sail–for a few hours at a time, at least.
I always forget this time of year is so inhospitable–in its quality and duration of light, in the dread it evokes that is only occasionally contained, in the anxieties masquerading as shared joy. Now that climate change is writ large, we contend with cold rain rather than pretty snow, to boot. Not to mention those tides of change finally, finally rising in Ameriker. Sexton said, “I know that I have died before–once in November.” Amend that to December, please, and pass me an umbrella. Rebirth is very messy.
I’ve been quiet because sometimes social media doesn’t feel like the ideal place to work through the inequities strangling our culture. I’ve been quiet because I don’t want a comment on Facebook or Twitter to make me feel that I’ve done my part. I’ve been quiet because I want to receive the best information I can about how this 40something lady can be of use before I start adding my voice to the conversation. But my quiet has nothing to do with my dissociation from the injustices coming to our attention. I pray we all can take action on the (cellular, systemic) levels on which true change can take place–and I join my heart with all who are already lending their bodies and voices to this struggle, as well as with the many who have lost their loved ones, their lives, their faith.