We begin to enter an era when even the light grows weary. It heads to bed sooner, and it lingers there longer, and yet I don’t berate the sun for its laziness. For its lack of productivity. For its languid pace, rising less high in the sky, burning a softer yellow, sharing less heat. I offer the sun no forgiveness the way I try to forgive myself. I know the inherent foolishness of absolving a cosmic leviathan for following the patterns of the seasons. For being subject to the turning of the earth. It hasn’t somehow failed to magic itself into a new contortion in the night sky to adhere to a modern capitalist approach to fecundity. It’s not hanging its head in shame that its light is dimmer for me than it was in June.

Which makes me wonder if I can manage the same immovable grace.

To allow myself to live lower in the sky for a little while. To bank my fire a bit. To give it a rest. To blink on for fewer hours each day. To follow the seasons. To be as wise as a sun who’s known who she is for eons.

…

P.S. When I’m feeling shy and hidey, friends, I sometimes occasionally often convince myself I have nothing to say because what are thoughts like these anyway? But I’m trying both to change my inner rhetoric, especially when it diminishes instead of encourages, and to practice writing, allowing whatever words want to emerge their freedom. Writing is good for my brain. Sharing without judgement is a discipline to which I’d like to become accustomed. So here we are. That’s what this is. Brought to you on my back patio under a pile of blankets while reading Wintering by Katherine May.