Sliding Toward Solstice
It is cold--damn cold--outside. It's eleven degrees Fahrenheit right now. With clear skies, the temperature will undoubtedly be zero by morning.
The past few days have plunged us from late autumn right into winter, like falling through thin ice into a dark pond. I love Alaska and I love winter but this time of year feels like sliding down an icy slope into a dark pit, fingernails scraping futilely against the unyielding smooth surface in a lame attempt to slow one's descent.
Denny leaves for Florida tomorrow night--the bastard.
Not that I *want* Florida. I'm so fair-complected that my skin comes off like a vampire's under strong daylight.
Warmth would be nice, though.
Like nearly everything in life, we have to pass through the darkness to get back to the light. I shall try to think heavy thoughts and get my spirituality back into some cohesive form so I can appreciate the season, this turn of the wheel. I coast on my contentment for so long that my life goes unexamined. Perhaps I will use Denny's absence to go deeper inside myself, do some meditation, get in touch with the unending.
Meanwhile, the clear night sky presses down on us like a cold iron.
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
-- W.B. Yeats
The past few days have plunged us from late autumn right into winter, like falling through thin ice into a dark pond. I love Alaska and I love winter but this time of year feels like sliding down an icy slope into a dark pit, fingernails scraping futilely against the unyielding smooth surface in a lame attempt to slow one's descent.
Denny leaves for Florida tomorrow night--the bastard.
Not that I *want* Florida. I'm so fair-complected that my skin comes off like a vampire's under strong daylight.
Warmth would be nice, though.
Like nearly everything in life, we have to pass through the darkness to get back to the light. I shall try to think heavy thoughts and get my spirituality back into some cohesive form so I can appreciate the season, this turn of the wheel. I coast on my contentment for so long that my life goes unexamined. Perhaps I will use Denny's absence to go deeper inside myself, do some meditation, get in touch with the unending.
Meanwhile, the clear night sky presses down on us like a cold iron.
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
-- W.B. Yeats
