We are moving into the darkness but what I find there is warmth. The fire lit in the evenings, a pot of soup on the stove, a lengthening of the time to be at home.
The world seems to be spinning more quickly from disaster to disaster, attack to retribution. The “happy holidays” I hear spoken have a thin veneer. Right below the surface is fear. We tend to turn to the bright and shiny, to the loud and frightening. We pay more attention to terror threatened than comfort given. Lend more credence to hate than heart. At least that’s what it would seem with a glance at the news, or twitter feed.
And yet I keep picturing people coming home; homes that may look very different than mine but hold notions of hope, families that may look very different than mine, but hold notions of kinship. People sit to share a meal, perhaps before they bow their heads, or hold each others’ hands, or sing.
Perhaps they do none of those things. Perhaps it is just one person alone, listening. I think there is a hum that can rise up when we listen out for each other. I think then we remember how long it takes for a star to shift from one thing to another but all the while if we look up we can see the light.