Drinking in the Dark

Maybe it’s my Scandinavian roots, but I absolutely love the darkness this time of year and get a bit sad when it gets lighter.  I’m an intensity junkie so living in Minneapolis is good, but I think I’d been happier some days in Greenland. Each winter I feel it hasn’t been cold enough or dark enough long enough.  While some people are counting the days until the solstice and growing light,  I enjoy cocooning and spent yesterday afternoon in bed for a long nap, snuggly warm. The cold darkness gives me permission.

This morning in meditation, I felt I was literally drinking in the quiet, quenched by stillness. It seemed delicious and yet I was sad the 20 minutes were almost up. I wanted to experience more, deeper, closer. I felt myself on the precipice of a deeper dive and was eager. Or am I?

In both the darkness of winter and the stillness of a morning meditation, I started mourning before the time was up, grieving something that, although inevitable, isn’t here yet.  This may be a form of protection from the richness of experiencing what is, for preparing for loss buffers the intensity of the present. How else do I do that?

We have a number of social engagements between now and the new year. At times I worry about being overwhelmed or too tired, but I believe all these connections can fill me up in this darkest time of year. Being with others in a warm home, with candles, a lit tree, a fire, laughter and hugs replaces the loss I have from not being outside as much, on the water, in sunshine, immersed in the woods.  Instead I will enter a human forest, nourish the blossoms of friendship, and deepen my roots in community. That should get me ready for spring.