Even though I prefer cold rainy days, I'm a California gal at heart. I love the cooler climate, grey skies, and rainy days. At this time of the year, I love these dark days. They are both soothing and... confusing.
Having been born and raised in California's Central Coast, I didn't get to have " seasons". Seasons don't noticeably change since the weather there is relatively mild. Sure, it gets a little chilly around November, but we don't deal with persistent rain or snow. I only noticed the time change twice a year and looked forward to "fall back" as a kid because that meant we didn't have to wait as long to go trick-or-treating (I'm not sure if this applies everywhere, but growing up, kids then only came out when it was dark).
But here in the PNW, each season is quite distinctive. Even with mild weather, the abundance of trees and wildlife provides a marking of time, signaling a preparation for the changes about to take place. Fall brings rain, winter may bring snow and stillness, spring brings (allergies!) bright blooms and birdsong, and summer bright skies, warmth, and a calling to be outdoors.
The dark days of late fall and early winter is a reliable (so far) event that takes place every year, and yet the darkness at 4:30 pm is still discombobulating. "How is it dark already?!?!?" might bring about guilty feelings of "I didn't do anything I said I would today". But even though the short days drive me bonkers because the days go by so fast, I feel a bit of reluctance to let it go when Winter Solstice comes around.
I am writing this on December 21, and after today, we make the shift, ever so slowly, to more sunlight and longer days. The cycle has come to an end and a new one emerges.
Even though the Winter Solstice marks the beginning of winter, the increasing sunlight hints at spring. I think I say this every year, but I'm not ready for more sun. I still want the coziness of these dark days. I want to wrap up in warmth with the cold outside me. I want slow. I want quiet. Just a bit longer. I don't want to let go.
A few years ago, I put together a playlist for holding and moving through grief during the Winter Solstice. As the sun set, I turned off the lights, lay down in the darkness, and played the collection. I was surprised at the depths to which it took me—the sadness of what and who I have lost. Unrealized sadness would surface and take me down. This ritual created a container for grief to be seen and heard (instead of the usual distraction to silence). It was a purging where, at moments, I became scared, I wanted to stop because the pain was so intense. But I let myself stay and dive deeper. Grief was my guide down this abyss and was going to take me as far down as it was willing to show me.
In my practice of being with the dark, I have also included the onset of light. So yes, there is a playlist for Welcoming the Light, a collection of songs that encompass hope, understanding, and a willingness to keep going and let light in.
As much as I love that shadow side of ecstasy, this part has become more meaningful to me over the years. It serves as a reminder that hope exists somewhere, especially when we can't see or feel it.
If you can't tell by now, I'm pretty good at "sad," and "pain", but this year, I'm a bit hesitant to go that deep on this longest night. Even the Winter Solstice playlist feels like too much. But I'm not quite ready for light either. Like I said, I want to be here with the long nights just a bit more, and I am at this moment realizing how much the need for rest has a lot to do with it.
So, as we transition from the darkest night to the gradual return of daylight, I'm reminded that there's beauty in this liminal space where both shadows and light intermingle. I am here again in that space where I don't want to let go. And despite my reluctance, this, too, is a healing experience.
This blog post is crafted with the assistance of Chat GPT-4 for research and editing purposes. No advertisements or paid affiliations are associated with its content.
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