A hope for the longest night

This year for me the winter solstice seems a significant marker, a waypoint on the path, a useful cognitive lever with which to flip the storyline–to say, hey, maybe the worst of the darkness has passed. Here’s hoping. For we must, always, keep hoping, no matter what–though there will always be reasons to stop.

To all of you who are also hoping in the darkness that the worst has passed, to those of you hunkered down and awaiting more, to those of you who have lost all faith in the return of light, I’m wishing you whatever grace you need to weather the darkness, to inhabit it, to be where you are.

Some of us are flickering in the darkness. Here’s my hope for this longest night. That we imagine one another grieving. That we celebrate joy and love even when they aren’t our own. That we open up our imaginations to make room for one another. That, as we grieve our losses, we know that in this we are not alone.

C.S. Lewis famously said “We read to know we are not alone.” Many of those of us who write do so because reading once shattered our alienation. Here’s a new, brief piece I wrote for Huffington Post this week. They asked me to write something on motherhood and loss, and I am pleased to have been able to have taken the chance to also write something about making room for loss this time of year. (Read it here.)

Warm wishes for bright days, for hope in darkness.

 

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