Solstice
Yesterday at work, the last day before a 4-day weekend, the secretary stopped by my desk with two Christmas pins, and told me to choose one. One was drums, the other a lantern. I chose the lantern because I think, when given the option, I should always choose light. The metaphor of the moment was not lost on me.
The winter solstice has arrived, and with its arrival I always breathe a sigh of relief. The days will start getting longer, and there will be more light for me to soak up into my skin, into my heart, despite the chilly weather that has me bundled up under a quilt even as I write this. (It is not supposed to get this cold in the desert, dammit! 47 degrees in daylight—are you kidding me?)
I have attempted, in this journey with grief, to make the choice of light, of healing, of progress, of life, whenever it seemed like it was up to me. Not all opportunities for light are as easily chosen as a Christmas pin, though; sometimes it doesn’t seem like you have a choice. So I have to wonder: Is it possible, then, for me to choose more light in the coming year? In a holistic way, rather than in a situational way? How do I go about doing that? Can I consciously choose for the hours of sunlight in my soul to lengthen along with those in the sky above me? I want to feel better, feel stronger, feel wiser, feel like this journey has taught me something and that I am putting those lessons to use going forward.
Is intention enough?
I was reading a post at the widow board this morning, paraphrasing a line from the movie P.S. I Love You, wherein the husband who has passed on said he wasn’t worried about her forgetting him; he was worried about her forgetting the woman she was when they’d met and fell in love.
I think about that a lot. A thought I was amazing, charming, sexy, brilliant, and confident, and while I’d like to believe I may have been some or all of these things at some point in my life, I haven’t been feeling any of them for quite some time. I wouldn’t mind being the woman he fell in love with; I rather liked her, though looking back, I think she was too cocky and tried too hard sometimes. I guess I’ve grown up, which is good for me and the people who deal with me, though I wouldn’t recommend the method that forced such maturity upon me. But I’d like to again be the woman who thought the world was just brimming with endless joys just waiting to be discovered and appreciated by her. I know those joys must still be there; it’s my attitude that’s changed. I’d like to be the woman who found joy in small things. A loved the small stuff, too, and I often shared those things with him. He said that hitting a green light right on the way to work could put him in a good mood all day; he had such a good attitude. I still share those things with him, but he’s not sharing back, and it’s hard not to not feel the loss. I still think I do savor the small joys and simple pleasures, but I’d like to do so without the constant tug-of-war between the sorrow and the joy.
I feel slightly schizophrenic, still, and I don’t know if I am actually more “whole” now, feeling both ends of the spectrum of human emotion, than I was in the past when I was always looking, insistently, on the bright side. Some days I think I’ve got a long way to go; other days I think I may be finer than I realize. Does a cork on a countertop know it is only inches away from the bottle where it belongs? Does a human being know she is only inches away from where she started, and that she may not be as lost as she assumes?
So many mysteries… I can only remember something I read in a book I read after A died: I cannot know the truth of myself; I can only live it.