‘Tis the season of contradictions. (And the gift of discernment)
You’re feeling the darkness we’re moving into, aren’t you? In spite of the holiday lights, the festive cheer, there is a weighty, contracted, even sombre energy.
Me too.
In the northern hemisphere, the light is growing dimmer and dimmer until we reach the longest night of the winter solstice. And then the sun begins its return.
But that’s just part of the story. A metaphor for the contradictions I'm feeling all around me.
We’re approaching the 10-year anniversary of my mother’s passing at the end of this month. Baking her signature Christmas cookies and singing her favourite hymns yields that paradoxical experience of feeling both her presence and her absence in the same skipped heartbeat.
In the meantime, I’m bearing witness to that painfully liminal space my daughter’s swimming in. Neither a young and innocent little girl, nor a street-wise teen. Yearning for toys under the tree and sensing that she’s “not supposed to” want what she wants.
It’s a time of well-wishing and worry. Of magic and melancholy. Of celebration and sorrow. Of grace and greed. Of hope and hopelessness. Of compassion and commercialization.
(And you know I’m not just talking about the holidays here, Loves. I’m talking about the news from around the world.)
For a light-seeking reveler like myself, it’s easy for me to turn towards the light. In fact, I can reframe dark to light so fast it would make your head spin. I know it has that effect on me.
But this year, it’s different. I’m being called to honour the need I’ve ignored for years. Instead of craning my neck towards the light, I’m going to allow myself to really be in it. To feel it. To not transmute it.
It’s scary and stifling…and somehow a complete relief. Awakening consciousness is like that.
And so, this year:
I’m not going to pour sparkles over the shadows. I’m going allow the dark to be dark and the light to be light. I’m going to allow the sadness to be sadness and the joy to be joy. I’m going to eat the cookies and sing the hymns and cry and stomp when I am called to do so. I’m going to grieve what needs to be grieved and celebrate what wants to be celebrated. I’m going to look back, and I’m going to look forward. And I’m going to look right here, AT the mystery of the present, IN the mystery of the present.
In the quiet respite of the dark, I’ll be able to see.
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