I sit in the stillness. The silence outside my office window, laced with snowflake-like patterns of frost, is only broken by the whispering winds moving through the stark fractal branches of the trees. From my desk, I can see an occasional vulture as it loops in the sky, a reminder of its role in the world as a scavenger, riding the thermals until it swoops down to clean up roadkill. Black-capped chickadees dart out from their shelter under the back steps to grab a few seeds from the ground before flitting back.
Wisps of wood smoke from our fireplace hang heavy in the air. Grey clouds scud across the sky, blown by the arctic winds that descend on us when a cold front comes through. The sun sits low in the sky, and in the distance the layers of icy blue mist settle on the mountains set against the stark white sky.
Gone are the earthen tones of autumn with its bright red maple leaves, lavender asters, and glowing yellow goldenrod. The once green rattlesnake ferns are blackened by the freezing cold, and the milkweed pods with its fluffy white seeds have long split open leaving dry brown husks behind. The winter world feels like steel, a slate gray palette of colors. Winter weighs heavily on me, and the darkness closes in.
I turn to my computer, and I notice a Post-It note at the bottom of the monitor. It reads: Go to the Light. I had put it there during the dark days when book banners came for my beloved library. For three years, it reminded me not to give in and become overwhelmed, but to fight back and believe that one day the library would live in the light again. Happily, the community spoke loud and clear in the last election and voted out the book banners, reclaiming the library for everyone in the community.
Reaching across my desk, I snap on my bright light therapy box, just 18 inches away, and 10,000 lumens pour out of the 12” x 15” rectangle. It feels like a ball of sunlight distilled to a point, and the light calls me out of the darkness.
I turn my face to the light and bask with my eyes closed for a few minutes. When I open my eyes, I see the long to-do list in front of me on my desk reminding me of why I sat down here in the first place. I pause, then push the list aside and decide to sit in the warm glow of light and enjoy the stillness of a winter day. With that gesture, I realize I am “i mo shuaimhneas,” an Irish phrase that literally means “in my peacefulness.” I feel as if I am wrapped in quietude, tranquility, and rest.
When I snap off the light box, and my eyes adjust back to the ambient light, I feel refreshed and at ease. The world seems dimmer, more shadowy, nuanced, and calm. I am no longer under the light box’s intensity, but I carry the absorbed light into my day.
Looking out the window once more, I think about the ice storms that hit hard due to the north slope microclimate in which I live. My world is encased in ice during a storm, turning my backyard into a glittering ice palace with every blade of grass, every twig on the trees, every pod of a dormant milkweed plant thickly glazed. The icy back steps are treacherous, locking me in the house. My car doors are sealed tight with ice, undrivable until the thaw comes. Everything stops in this frozen world.
But if I just sit. If I accept the wintery pinpoint in time for what it is—a time to rest, regroup, and reflect—I know I will find my suaimhneas. In that peaceful repose, the light will come. The sun will beam down, and the ice will crack, leaving fractured shards to skitter across the frozen ground. The darkness will melt along with the ice, as light envelops my world.
Galánta 💚
Beautifully written, Colleen.