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Midwinter



I had a thought last night, the end of the first day after the longest night,

"What if last night really was the longest night?"

Katherine May, author of 'Wintering' says, "I love that pause at the end of the shortest day, that moment when you feel the year turning and something else coming through, the beautiful quiet moment in the year if you let it happen, if you notice it.'

I haven't noticed, because I tend to expect darkness to stay, when it's here. I consider Katherine's beautiful quiet moment and wonder about the possibility, like a skeptic seeking a mystic. What if something else is already coming through?!?

In this winter dark, I notice the puddles of black water settling in across the church lawn at dusk, part of the landscape of winter in the Pacific Northwest. The puddles reflect the dark that has settled into my interior sky. My friend, Amy, writes, 'It ‘s funny how sure that inner perception is of itself. It knows. And yet it is so wrong. It’s it’s own darkness, and the reality is that the light always returns.'

I lay half-awake, early this morning, a dream still moving, heavy in the dark, a remnant of a cherished conversation with a friend and then a sister. I hesitate to open my eyes, as if the light will chase away the warm part of my life still here in my dream-body. like Jacob, wrestling a night angel by the river, demanding a blessing before letting the angel go, I lay there until it speaks, offering me clues but no more. Clues of deep connection, tears peppered with laughter, familiar yet strange, as dreams can be, as if needing my courageous participation.

I open my eyes, surprised to find the light already filling the room, on this first morning after the shortest day after the longest night.

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