Advent

 

               Even though I am no longer catholic—or any sort of organized religion—this time between Thanksgiving and Solstice remains a sacred part of the year. Advent. The days are still growing shorter and colder; I find myself starting dinner at four thirty, rather than six PM, as I do in summer.  The chickens are down late and up early, but still chowing to stay warm. Their feathers are all back from the fall molt. Mr Beezhold stays in the hutch in the morning, waiting for the ground to warm up. We sleep later, buried under piles of blankets, jump up to turn on the heat, and return to bed while the house warms on weekend mornings. On clear afternoons, the bare branches reach for the sky, stark against the dying light.  When it is cloudy or foggy, everything is hidden. Living so far north, the darkness feels longer and deeper than it did when I was a child.

                We spend  afternoons, when it is dry enough, on long walks in the woods. I gather green branches for the mantel. We consider the wide range of fungi that are sprouting up on logs, on trees, in the pathway itself, and how the ice storm last year opened up sections of the preserve for more light. Rushes are now growing by the trail in standing water. Where did that come from? A few catkins are beginning to stretch out but there are no blooms. And it is quiet. So quiet.  

                What have we learned in the past year? What did we do right? What would we like to change, if we could? These three weeks have become an accounting of the year.  We wait, in hope, in peace, for the return of the sun on Solstice night.