Tag: solstice

I told myself
to walk as the afternoon wore on.
I head out
looking, listening.
It’s more or less the same time
each day
and yet new details stand out.
I found a small animal skull
its teeth intact
like it had been clenching its jaw.
I study the hanging sycamore seed pods against the sky.
I go to the end of a private road and circle back.
A red tail hawk swoops past between the trees.
I see the reflections of muscular geese landing on the pond.
What reflection
do the geese see?

Lines for Winter

Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon’s gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.

–Mark Strand, from Selected Poems, 1979, in New Selected Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 2007)

Out in the late afternoon I felt as if I was immersed in the particles of mist that lingered after the rain. Fog began to settle and the gray blanket swallowed details to the point that the boundaries of my mood and the day softened and dissolved into a smooth sheet. I have been pondering the December gray as the weather report predicts a week of rain. Wondering how to retain my sense of wonder in the continued gray. Sometimes it seems like rain brings out the color in the landscape. But tonight it was the opposite. I wore my tangerine raincoat like a flag waving hello to the people I passed in town.

It is at Dusk that the most interesting things occur, for that is when simple differences fade away. I could live in everlasting Dusk.

–Olga Tokarczuk, from Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead (tr. from the Polish by Antonia Lloyd-Jones)

After errands in town on a rainy dark afternoon Warren and I laughed at how late it felt to be driving home. It was only 5:30 and fully dark. Once home I fed the cat and dog and headed out for a wet night walk. I had the phone flashlight but mostly I felt my way on the ground. Instead of looking I listened for the crunch of gravel and the squish of wet grass. Even when my eyes began to adjust to the darkness, I saw/felt the land differently. The nearby deer shifted; the horses in the field snorted; something else shuffled off, perhaps a possum? I know the paths. So I feel my way, looping around the property skirting the unknown and happy to be welcomed again into the dry warmth of home.

Leave the door open for the unknown, the door into the dark. That’s where the most important things come from, where you yourself came from, and where you will go.

–Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

Many years ago after a big storm several long Tulip Poplar branches came down. Warren de-barked these long poles and brought them into the corner of our living room that is more than two stories tall. At the time they reminded Warren of a ladder made by Martin Puryear (Ladder for Booker T. Washington, 1996). A few years ago I wrapped one of the poles with holiday lights. At this time of year I often write at my laptop with just these lights for company as the outside light drains. Other days I leave these twinkles on as I head out for a dusk walk so that the sparkle of small lights welcomes me home.

Our grandson is coming to visit for the holidays, so we plan to make this part of the house more toddler friendly. The poles are heading back to the studio to be reincarnated as something new. It allows me to enjoy these last moments of light and arrangement of furniture before low level fragile things get shifted out of baby finger height. The handiwork with old wood is rekindled by the love of a new life.

December Brightening

I came home
late to the broken

porch light fixed—
handiwork of an old

love’s new flame.

–Andrea Cohen, Four Way Books, 2021

Tonight when we decided that no more people were coming to our open studio I headed out for a dog walk with two friends. We looped down the hill and around the pond in the chill air as the moon shone out against the trees standing dark against the sky. We may momentarily lose track of the words to describe our many years of friendship, but still retain an appreciation of being together once again. It was dark as we got back to the warm house. The dog was excited because she knew dinner was imminent. Warren and I have a running disagreement about these early December evenings. Can we call them winter or do they stay autumn until after the solstice?

The trees stand stark against the sky. It is fall, or autumn: sometimes she loses track of which word belongs where. Small matter, it is that time of year when the dark descends early.

– Colum McCann, from “Treaty,” in Thirteen Ways of Looking: A Novella and Three Stories (Random House, 2016)

After our last visitor left this evening I headed out with the dog. From inside the house it appeared to be pitch black, but once outside on the driveway I could see the rich variations of land, sky, clouds and moon. I was glad for the simple task of a dog walk. We headed up the driveway and along the road where we get a broader view of hills, trees and sky. I had explained to various people today my understanding of the idea of nothingness or “Mu.” My walk in the dark was a reminder of the relationship of mystery and darkness, and the sense of the space between things. A feeling of blur and uncertainty became a welcome presence.

The space of nothingness is where one finds his or her own self and life’s richness.

–Tadao Ando (Japanese architect)

On Tuesday evening I headed out with our dog for a meeting of the dog club to which I belong. It was pitch black out. Warren asked me if I needed a flashlight or a head lamp. At our house when the sun goes down it feels as if there is an infinite dark. I reminded Warren I was going to town. We met at a park with street lamps and although it was a cold evening we could see each other. Our dogs were very aware of each canine. There had been an accident on a nearby street and the whole time we practiced telling our dogs to sit and stay amidst the many variations of instilling dog manners, sirens sang in the distance. There was one dog who was particularly sensitive to sirens and he howled in concert. When I got home fully chilled I could appreciate the dark of our yard and the quiet of our spot we call home.

One Secret

not the brilliant stars
but the infinite dark
what I wish on

–Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

It’s hard to believe I have been doing this December project for more than twenty years. When it started it was just tiny envelopes with words that had to do with light. They were made as a gift for my daughter. I plopped them on my scanner with some painted paper as a background to create a quick image. I handed one to her each morning as an ad hoc advent calendar. I began to send those scanned images to friends and a mailing list began to build. The following year Warren, always the great archivist, printed out each image email combo to bring with us to New York to share with his parents who were not on-line. I remember clearly, the bags were packed by the front door and Zoë saw a plastic binder with images and text. She immediately sat down on a duffel bag and read all twenty-one messages. When we began to pack the car she said, “I didn’t know there was writing that went with the images.”

Each year as I begin, Warren, my editor for both photos and words, wishes I could get a running start. But I never seem to be able to plan it out– this is really a response to the season. I am never sure I have anything to say or a quote to share. But then it gets dark so early and the month shifts to December and I have to learn all over again how to appreciate the dark. As I relearn, I research, and I find new ways to appreciate the early sunset and the long hours of darkness. I find myself taking photos once again, writing and looking for poems or quotes to shed light on this season.

Here’s a link to those original word tickets.