It’s that time of year, and it gets dark so very early. It feels like bed-time before it’s even supper-time.
It’s that time of year, and the temperature has dropped, and by the front door are piled boots and mittens, scarves and hats. Because if you’re not careful, that combination of temperature and wind we’ve been having drives the cold into your bones, and once it’s there, the chill is a long time leaving.
It intrigues me that the season we so identify with light comes at precisely the darkest time of the year.
It intrigues me that the holiday associated with such warmth comes at precisely such a cold time.
As if there’s something integrally true about an affirmation/a celebration in apparent contradiction of the way things are, and yet, more—something essentially true not just in contradiction of external circumstance, but in the promise of inversion—that even within the bone-chilling cold, we will know warmth—that in the darkest of times, yet will the light shine.
It also occurs to me, as someone who remains, for the most part, warm, who walks in some darkness, but also in the light, I have to be oh so very careful with what I say, that might be heard by people who don’t yet know warmth or light.