Solstice 2011
It is hard to detect this time of year,
only a faint suggestion finds its way, occasionally to your first cranial nerve and you feel a jolt of pleasure or pain, depending on your inclination.
but it is there.
The midnight blue of Keat’s nightingale, the fountains of cherubs, the night blooming jasmine- the inner garden of longing, turmoil and when tended, forgiveness.
When days are short there is less time for wandering, for admiring the tangle of vines and flowers, for the kind of imagination that is so natural to cats, to lovers, to nursing babes. A slow, languid sort that has no destination.
When it is cold, we ally our corporeal compass homeward, inside, we want fire.
Stack of sticks, whispered prayers , a hope weaned from logic, a sense that if we stay up and watch the sky with each other, the sun will decide again to burn toward us from the just the right distance, like a father who has raised so many children it seems he is doing it without thinking but the truth is this is the ta-da,this loving hand of light, raising us up, each one, each day.
