The Longest Night of the Year

                                             

            Here in the Pacific Northwest, we are 48 hours away from the longest night of the year.  The Solstice has an intimacy on Quilcene Bay where at mid-day I look out of the casement window with its view of the gray water, the dark russet evergreens on the opposite shore with foothills beyond in a receding, rolling  charcoal beneath a gray coverlet. Those clouds are now dripping rhythmic rain on our shake roof.  In December, we can wrap ourselves in gray reminiscent of an army blanket, if less scratchy.  So why should I take note of the longest night of the year when gray succumbs to black for fourteen hours?  

            This morning, before rain resumed, I rode my bike around the end of the bay to deliver the last Christmas cards to the village post office before the 10:00 AM deadline for outgoing mail.  On the north side of the road, tidelands swelled with saltwater seeping under the road at high tide.  On the south, the waters rose to lap the bottoms of purple martin boxes Allan secured on pilings there in the spring.  Before me, the layered hills cradled creamy clouds like woodfire smoke  between ridges.  I relished the subtle softness of winter dormancy.  I noticed red rose hips, the remaining color on Nootka rose bushes that surround the fields.  My ears received plaintive moos from Joe’s steers who sauntered from grassy humps to feed lots spread at strategic locations across their pasture. No sunshine to cast my shadow as I pedaled across the bridge spanning the Little Quilcene River.  Instead, I watched the river, clear and cold hurrying below the bridge, amber and gray stones gleaming below the cold, clear water. 

           The lack of light gives my eyes a rest.  In welcomed summer, light would reflect off those stones, glare blinding my eyes, forcing me to squint and adjust my sunglasses.  Perhaps outside light withdrawing, allows inside light to glow.  Today I am glowing with gratitude for the seasons, for the understandings that the circle of life offers.  As the title of my blog announces, time intrigues me.  Well aware that fewer days are before me than behind me, I am gathering decades of memories as I ride forward to what life may still offer.  Our Christmas card endeavor, a creative tradition of my husband’s art and my poetry, still takes over several days of addressing, writing accompanying notes, stuffing art and poetry into envelopes and hefting the box of them to the post office.  Handling the address list is my job.  More often now, I am pushing “Delete Row” after learning a friend or relative is no longer alive.  But I am also adding in another column the name of a friend’s new grandchild.   Life is not a timeline.  It is a circle, a carousel from which one steps off as another is carried on to a shining horse.  The Winter Solstice does not end a year, but rolls over on the planet’s turning toward Spring’s Equinox – equal day and night.

            The Winter Solstice, so near New Year’s Day, acknowledges the passing of 2020.  Everyone is ready to hand the hat to 2020 and show it to the door.  Before it steps away from the circle, let’s walk out on a winter day, wrap the grayness around us and consider the dormant wisdom we’ve gleaned through the Longest Night of the Year.