It is a season of darkness, earth's slowdance.
Today began early, just after three, a restless sleeper crying out. They pull me out of the Night, they always have.
I get up to soothe her and then lay wide awake, allured into the quiet of world deep asleep. Pad down the steps, reach for one corner light, set coffee to brew. Yesterday was rain and today there is snow. I light candles at four o'clock.
There is a thoughtful beauty of these dark days; soft light, steamy suppers, layers of blankets on three tiny beds. Warm cafes lit against the night. I love our quiet hours, our dark, our interior. I want to listen to classical music and stir soup, gather with friends around softly lit tables.
Maybe I am drawn to this season because it feels so much like hope, the way all of our living and being forms around these small lights, flaming against the dark.
I think of my grandmother, whose hope has been made sight. She loved the deep and quiet months. Just like her, I want to draw inward, too, the way she used to be, with her books, her kitchen and her stirring. I think about prayer and how she prayed, sometimes I think I physically miss the absence of her prayers, though maybe she prays for us still I do not know.
And isn't this hope, faith, love; this tiny force, imagination, the place where dreams come from we carry at our center, against the dark, against all odds. We write it in the night, in the quiet, in this immeasurable space of hoped for yet unseen.
Later today it is I waking her from sleep. The rule is that you must go gently, and we all gather around because we love to watch her gather from dreaming. On this day she is smiling in her sleep, and as I invade her dreams she tosses an arm around my neck, pulling me to her, still deep asleep, certain she is not dreaming.
linking up today with Heather to Just Write