the darkest part of the year is here. the solar calendar says its still autumn, but my soul-calendar says winter is here. i heard it in the trees last night, felt in the thin sharp edge of air against my cheek this morning. the birches outside my window finally are bare, a final feast of berries clings to the brittle branches of the spice bush. ice glazes the surface of the ponds, dawn is long and gray. only the wind breaks the silence.
inside this little sanctuary, surrounded by the trees, the world seems silent, still. outside, today is saturday, there's twenty-three more shopping days til christmas. today i go to read cards, then visit my grandmother.
the new england winter doesn't seem to appeal to mama pele - in her incarnation as my grandmother, she is becoming particularly querolous and demanding. its time to offer her more bananas.
or maybe Something Else is at work. maybe my grandmother, too, feels the tug of the cold dark earth, the lure of winter sleep. the weight of ninety-five winters must lie heavy on her bones. but i think, that like hamlet, its the fear of what dreams might come that keep her from any final sleep.
i watch a watery sun blaze golden spears of light. i think i'll bring her a pineapple upside-down cake as well.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be!