I believe in the night
The darkness of the womb protects the tender beginning of new life.
This post was originally sent to founding members only. Since I am taking time off to be present with family during the holidays, I’m unlocking this post to all subscribers. I hope you enjoy this special Christmas letter. I have a lot planned for this space next year and I can’t wait to see you in 2023!
There are always more Christmas decorations in the basement than I remember. Boxes of hand-painted ornaments from my Grandma June. A replica of a carved, wooden church my Dad first gave to my great-grandparents, and then me. Quilted pot holders and table runners from my Mom.
As I get older, I find myself searching for new reasons behind all of the decorating, cookie baking, and family gathering. Growing up religious, the celebration was clear: Light has come to earth, promising peace and goodwill, if only we’ll believe.
Now, I know there are flaws in the story; the idea of needing to be “saved” leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
Yet, I love the preparations the season requires. Looking up old recipes, drawing names, making lists. Gift wrapping while listening to the old classics on the record player (Amy Grant, anyone?). But I am bothered by the over-production, the consumer-based need to buy our way to the Promised Land of peace, love, and joy.
I long to participate in a way that feels more authentic, true to this season and what I think is the root of our merry-making. I try to feel my way through what that might mean while pulling out strands of lights and listening to the (artificial) crackling of a fire in our living room. Listening for the quiet origin song of our celebration, our need for hope during the darkest season of the year.
Over the past year, the tension of this season has become a personal, tangible wrestling. Two Christmases ago, my dad left this world days after the winter solstice. As if to say, it will only get lighter from here, the days, lengthening. I did not know it at the time but my relationship with darkness would forever change.
You, darkness of whom I am born-
I love you more than the flame
that limits the world
to the circle it illumines
and excludes all the rest.But the dark embraces everything:
shapes and shadows, creatures and me,
people, nations- just as they are.It lets me imagine
a great presence stirring beside me.
I believe in the night.-Ranier Maria Rilke
As a culture, we are focused on light. Collectively, we’ve concluded it’s better. It represents good, and darkness, its counterpart. We bemoan the somber and gloomy days of winter, longing for Spring. We use metaphors to talk about spreading warmth and peace using one candle to light another and then another and another. We’ve created so much of our own light it’s whited out the stars.
It wasn’t until my father’s death that I began to understand the shelter darkness provides. Grief is no friend of the sun. It startles at the very mention of joy. It craves the void of nothingness, the space and comfort of a moonless night.
It can be frightening. This black hole of being. We are taught to fear the dark because we can’t see with our usual senses.
It is unknown. Transformative. A portal from which we will emerge, something other than who we are now.
Darkness is many things but it is not static. Nor empty. I am learning to trust it is not malefic, either. The darkness of the womb protects the tender beginning of new life. The buried seed needs the fertile darkness of the earth to hold it before it breaks open toward the light. We need the slumber of evening to nourish our bodies before another dawn.
Winter is nature’s cue to rest. Hibernate. A pause before the rebirth.
I am learning to honor this season in new ways, beginning with curiosity. What can this meeting point of light and dark teach us? Hope cannot exist without darkness. How can we cherish both? A candle needs the night for its flame to be seen.
Here, as we approach a time of solstice, reaching the pivot point, may you find yourself comforted by the cover of night and hope for a new day.
P.S. If you’d like to dive further into this topic of honoring the darkness, I highly suggest reading Katherine May’s book, “Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times.” Don’t have time to read? Her guest appearance on the On Being podcast is also a gem.
P.P.S. It’s not too late! If you’d like to upgrade to a paid subscription, I’m offering free, 30-minute tarot sessions with me through the end of December!
P.P.P.S. (Last one!) I’d love your feedback on what you’d like to see and read in the new year. Please take this short reader survey to share your thoughts! Thank you and see you in 2023!