The dark is here. In two days we will celebrate the winter solstice, and then the days will begin, ever so slowly, to get longer. This has been a long, chaotic winter thus far. Lots of waiting that I had done is over and the things I have waited for are bursting up and out in many colors, like fireworks. It is glorious. And yet, at the same time, here is the darkness and the cold and even more waiting for new things.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Wanting.
The phoebe sits on her nest
hour after hour,
day after day,
waiting for life to burst out
from under her warmth.
Can I weave a nest for silence,
weave it of listening,
Listening,
layer upon layer?
But one must first become small,
Nothing but a presence,
Attentive as a nesting bird,
Proffering no slightest wish,
no tendril of a wish
board anything that might happen,
or be given,
only the warm, faithful waiting,
contained in one's smallness.
Beyond the question, the silence.
Before the answer, the silence.
May Sarton
May says it best.
As the days continue to grow shorter, and as the darkness continues to spread its inky self across the hours, it is comforting - perhaps simply imperative - to be small.
To be warm.
To faithfully wait.
To embrace the silence.
For life will burst out…
Oh yes.
Oh yes.
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