The light this time of year holds both swollen fullness and barren emptiness in its palm. I love Meg Casey’s beautiful words about how November “calls us to let go and to face the quiet, without knowing what comes next.” Every ray of light is an elegy, mourning that which is gone. That is the emptiness. But somehow the richness of the light and the incredible contrast in the late afternoon also speaks to me of fullness, of the harvest and fecundity and the fact that now is more golden and more light than the months that lie ahead.
I feel the same contrast – between light and dark, between full and empty, between sorrow and gratitude – pulsing in my veins these days. My spirit seems to vibrate on the same frequency as that of the season, echoing its sense of impending darkness and its awareness of long, cold nights ahead.
We are turning towards the solstice. How is it possible that I know and understand less than ever?