December

December 25, 2022

Dec 25, 2022

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To Know the Dark
To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.
-- Wendell Berry

*We see our brightest star best as she rises from the dark.*

Hello friends! Here we are at a new moon in the darkest part of the year (in the northern hemisphere anyway). Blessed Yuletide, Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah to all who celebrate - and joyful wishes to all who don’t! Sending extra love to all who are sick, alone, struggling or wishing this day could be different than it is. May you find peace.

As Ada Limon (current poet laureate of the US) wrote on her Instagram, “Let us do what we can to head towards the light. but let’s also trust the dark.”

This month I’ve been practicing writing daily “one-sentence journals”, inspired by the poetry class I took with Chris LaTray and his heart-full book titled “One-Sentence Journal”. (With a subscription you can read his version for November and I highly recommend his Substack for glimpses of both the dark and the light in our complex world.)

This week I offer you my “advent calendar” if you will - the 24 days of December thus far:

12/1/22: A cold wind blows outside while I, deeply tired from the week’s events, snuggle in my warm sheets holding gratitude for my family and our support of each other.
12/2/22: The warm wind blows and I feel unsettled. The gulls relish the winds, hovering and swooping over the choppy water. Same winds, different perspective.

12/3/22: The air is cold, crisp and clean. I feel the earth with each footstep, allowing the solidity to sink into my bones and help me settle.
12/4/22: Cold and calm. Defuse light makes its way through thin clouds. Leafless trees stand tall, holding the space as life renews itself.

12/5/22: Sitting on the ground at the water’s edge I feel sheltered from the unsettled winds above. Soon I will stand and face the day but for a moment I wonder if this is how the merganser floating in the cove might feel.
12/6/22: Geese fly under thick grey clouds, moving from their water roost to the fallow fields where they forage all winter long. Back and forth, earth to water, nourishment to rest, I let the geese show me the way.

12/7/22: Gray and still. Red-tailed hawk sits on a branch every bit as still as her surroundings. The trees beckon me towards my center, towards the roots, towards the stillness inside.
12/8/22: Some days the low clouds and gentle mist feel oppressive and other days they feel like a warm hug. The experience of being human is so curious.

12/9/22: Bonaparte’s gulls swoop in and brighten the morning. Swooping, diving, gliding, chasing each other - their energy is the dose of brightness I needed to lift the overwhelming gray a little.
12/10/22: Walking in the gray I see hawk fly across the field. Her day goes on regardless of the weather, as does mine.

12/11/22: Sun breaks through the clouds and I drink in the bright blue mid-afternoon sky I have been missing.
12/12/22: A few brown leaves still cling to branches on a cold, gray morning as I feel myself holding on – to what I don’t know. Can I too drop to the ground and let myself be renewed?
12/13/22: A warm afternoon walk after morning rain. Chickadees flit about in the bushes and I soak in the warmth while I can.

*Hello friend loon, what a surprise to see you this late in the year!*

12/14/22: Watching the sunrise after so many cloudy mornings lifts my spirits. Loon pops up across the cove and disappears just as quickly.
12/15/22: Sun breaks through the clouds at sunset. I watch the trees blowing in the wind and see a Cooper’s hawk zip through the field.
12/16/22: Coots dive for vegetation just below the water, ring-billed gulls use the wind to hover in place, loon is still wary of my presence and tiny bits of ice reflect the sun on the water’s edge. A beautiful winter morning.

*The splash left behind by the diving coot.*

12/17/22: So tired from a poor night’s sleep I watch my willow tree wondering how she recovers after a long, stormy night.
12/18/22: Fog rises from the lake, ducks swim in the cove and I soak in the sunshine. A calm oasis in a stormy week.
12/19/22: Cold mist outside, warm tea inside. I imagine what it’s like to be a bear in a den for winter. I watch the trees blow in the wind and feel for my own roots.

12/20/22: Crows are calling loudly as they circle over the field and I imagine them drawing rings of yellow against the gray clouds. Their voices call me to pay attention in a new way, to see what might be revealed.
12/21/22: As we await the coming storm I wonder if the trees and geese anticipate it as I do. I hope all my feathered friends find shelter.
12/22/22: “Fit for neither man nor beast” is apropos so I’m content to let it snow outside the windows, out of sight, while snuggle in my bed I might, making silly rhymes, at times, to warm myself on a long cold night.

*Christmas Eve visitor doing a little fishing.*

12/23/22: The winds are howling their frigid breath in the north but here in the south window I bask in the warmth of the sun. Red-tailed hawk swoops in and quickly disappears again as a cat runs across my back porch. Life goes on whatever the conditions.
12/24/22: Sunrise with colorful skies as the north winds continue to blow. Steam rises, eagle swoops and goldeneyes dive. Hooded mergansers are practicing their spring courting dance even as winter settles in.

As a practice, committing to write one little mini-”poem” a day has helped me take notice of what’s around me, especially on the most challenging days. As I think about what I wrote, I do seem to talk about the weather a LOT. I wonder what would happen if I were a little more imaginative with my writing. I wrote a lot about cold and gray and started to remember I’m not all cold and gray inside. So who knows? Perhaps something new will come from this practice in 2023. Maybe as I get to know the dark inside I will find it too blooms and sings.

While we’re talking about poetry, my friend Kai Siedenburg has published a new book of poems called “Love Poems from the Earth”. You can check it out here! I often open her previous books (“Space Between the Stones” and “Poems of Earth and Spirit”) for a moment of nature connection. I even love the titles of her poems, such as, “When I Meet a Poem”, “The Right to Remain Silent” and “God Does Not Like to Hurry”. I look forward to what her new book will bring!

I keep finding myself whispering the prayer from St. Francis of Assisi, “Lord make me an instrument of thy peace.” It’s a wish to let peace flow through and touch the dark and the light in the world, a wish I make with my whole heart.

Sending much love to you all. May peace find you and love fill you.

(PS - Substack tells me I’ve “exceeded the email limit”. I’m curious if you all found it cut off somewhere or if it all showed up in your email? I’d appreciate knowing if you made it this far!)