Thursday, December 21: Solstice

The season has become too bright, and on this, its longest night, I welcome darkness.

Come in. Snuff out the Advent candles, the Christmas lights. Frost the windows until I cannot see the stars outside. I will turn off the Christmas music, hide the wrapping paper, the to do list, the candies and cookies. I long for you, Darkness, as I never have before.

Today, during a sacred conversation, I asked, What good did it do that I loved him in the end? What good did it do if it didn't stop him from doing the terrible things he has done?

 And the listener--a man I barely know who in that moment became a most unlikely midwife to my pain--handed the question back to me. What would have happened if you hadn't tried? What will happen if you stop believing in the power of love?

 When I didn't answer, he added, Who says this is the end of the story?

 And I said, The story never ends.

 And he said, You're right about that. 

Tonight, Darkness, I ask myself, what have I learned this year about waiting? What new word waits on the cusp of the new year that will begin in the slow lengthening of light?

I know this much: I am a midwife to healing. I've shepherded others' pain, pushing my hand inside to guide the head through the slick, red opening. I've tried to do so lightly, with curiosity, openness, awe.

But sometimes I've pulled too hard, or turned away, or spoken too sternly to the one giving birth. Sometimes I've held too tightly to the gift that came, or too quickly handed it back, without really looking.

Tonight, I forgive myself.

Tonight, I affirm that it is not possible to write another person's story. I can't absorb others' pain, change others' choices, force others to open, forgive, believe in themselves, or love. I cannot stop those who have been hurt from hurting others.

Tonight, I affirm that no story ever ends. Every ending blossoms into new beginnings that open and shape-shift, leaving only small trails of narrative connecting them to their source. Every Solstice night ends with light, every day-after-Solstice with a slightly shorter night...and so on.

All I can do is be a witness--put my hands out to catch what comes, look lovingly at the gift, then hand it back. 

Tonight, Darkness, I ask, what have I learned this year about waiting? What new word will come if I hold out my hands?

You cradle me gently, whispering, wait, wait, wait. You know how to do this. All your life, this moment is what you've trained for. 

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