Yesterday was Solstice, and that my dear friends, begins to bring relief to the darkness of winter nights. I choose to live in Seattle, where the light is scarce anyhow, and in the winter, it’s scarcer still. But solstice brings the light around again, and hope for warmer weather in a few months, and I compulsively make plans for the new year, and the next season of art work and shows. But that seems way too practical for me on this first night after solstice.
Tonight I want to pause and be grateful for the dark. In the dark I see less, and don’t get distracted by details. I can stop to thank God for the gift of loving people that surround me. For my mother who noted early on that I had a special art gene and nurtured all creative pursuits throughout my forming years. Mom is in nursing care, so I’m grateful for the nurses that care for her daily. I’m grateful for the chance to travel 5 hours by gas powered car on a smooth road with all the cars going in the same direction so I could see her eyes and make sure she knows I love her.
In the dark I can close my eyes and focus on my husband’s grayer-than-last-year bearded face with the curled mustache that makes him look like he’s permanently smiling. I’m grateful for my husband who always supports our mutual and individual creative pursuits, and participates in wordplay with me when the art is ready for naming.
In the dark I can consider how much light and joy my grandchildren bring to my life. Through the babies, I am reminded to wonder about things, and not just think I already know them. Through the adolescent ones I’m reminded to be passionate and move ahead with confidence, even if I’m mistaken. Most of the time it doesn’t matter anyway, but life is much better with passion.
In the dark I can imagine about the ones that are gone, and I hope that we will see each other once again, in some form, be it solid or ethereal. I imagine we will take the form of something that flies, like a bird or a cloud, but that doesn’t matter either. They are loved, and so am I, and the memories are enough.
Lynette
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