They told me it would be like this. Body declining. Fewer and fewer of those we love in the here and now. Life becoming narrower. But, I never believed them.
I mean it's true. We can have days when the darkness settles, clouds are heavy both outdoors and in my mind. I can feel the weight of it, the texture of darkness painted on my bones.
But I've learned. Not to let the darkness overwhelm me. Instead, learn to move in the dark. It may not be like spring and youth and oh-so-alive. But it's still movement.
Soft and slow. Create. Clear. Learn. Surrender.
Write something or read a good book. And, spend a little time, eyes out the window, onto something outdoors. Trees stripped bare of their fancy summer dresses. The world more stark.
Allow the mind to wander, dropping in on memories, moments shared or moments alone. Perhaps contemplate. Or just go blank. Float along on the moment. No need to actually think. Beautiful things sometimes arise.
Something else often brings me back to this dark December day. A dog running up for a kiss. A cat demanding a pet. My husband asking me a question.
Moving in the dark is a privilege. Running and hiding, always doing something productive, never took away the darkness. It was always worse then than it is now.
Funny that lesson. The more willing I've been to just be in it, the less frightening it all is. And, it's much less intense than it was in the old days.
If only I could have taught my son that skill. If only I'd learned in time. But these things have a way of moving, a "divine" timing that doesn't always seem so divine in my limited human mind. But the truth is, I wouldn't have learned the skill of being in the dark without that journey into hell and back. It's all part of a bigger plan, an arc that spans more time than we can imagine.
Only here, only now can I say it's okay. The path I'm traveling today isn't afraid of the dark, or death. Now to learn to dance with the light with the same depth.