There are days when we wake up with an aching head or a sore throat. Days when we push too hard too early, and are tired and ill-spent before the day’s half over. More likely than not, on these days, the land is shadowed by heavy clouds and cold winds fling icy drops at us when we step outside. More likely than not, on these days, it feels better to have no music and to fully immerse ourselves in the silence.
But these are the very same days when a kind tone in a loved one’s voice astonishes and gladdens us. These are the days when the trees abandon their silent vigil and instead dance together in conversation. The hawks cry out when the sun is shining, but their cries pierce us when they drift down to us on these days.
On the days of discomfort and exhaustion, there is a different enchantment on us. It’s not like the sunny, musical days when our fullness inside seems as expansive as the sky. The enchantment of dark days is the mysterious kiss of the moon brought into daylight, a sort of untamed, half-torn-open exposure to an outer fullness larger than what we hold inside.
Dear hearts, are not these days perfect and lovely in their way? There’s a different kind of perfection in illness and fatigue, a different movement of grace that makes the trees dance so, but isn’t it whole? Though half ourselves seems spilled out, doesn’t the other half surround us with the shivery, loving embrace of the unknown? It’s a different order of magic and mystery, but equally magnificent.
I, for one, am glad that we have our winters. It seems as though the holy light can more easily enter us through our wounds.