Dark Days

 Here it comes.  That darkest day of the year.  Each December it’s the same deal.  As days get shorter and shorter, I (and I suspect many of you) feel more and more like wrapping up in flannel sheets and curling into a fetal position in the centre of a soft bed.  I want to close my eyes and open them again some time in early April.   

We’re only a few days away now and as always I’m amazed that very soon the days will actually begin to get longer.  Funny how it seems to sneak up on me and just when I can feel the despair trying to take over, I think of the days soon getting longer and longer  and I’m hopeful again.

Still it all takes some effort.  Along with spending less of my time in sunshine and daylight, here are some of the things that change for me as the winter solstice approaches. I

1. relive the days leading up to my mom’s death on Dec. 19, 1998 (very sad);   

2. massage warm oils into my scalp as it gets tighter and tighter, dryer and dryer;   

3. push myself to get more active;   

4. ponder the last year of my life: what I’ve lost and gained, my health, the kind of person, how I’ve spent my time?   

5. start making thick turkey soup again;   

6. assure myself that it’s okay to grow older.  The alternative is not desirable;   

7. write.  I write more and better during this time (okay, usually depressing things);   

8. prepare to do battle with the black dog that threatens to come to my door about mid-January.  It doesn’t always show up, but if it does, I’ll be ready;   

9. read.  There are so many wonderful things to read (thank goodness for electric light);   

10: and finally, look for good things to believe in.  After all, I really am an optimist.   

Here’s a poem I wrote on the subject- it appears in Other Living Things (2009).   

Winter Solstice, 2002

(After M. Atwood)   

i   

A green barbed phantom, dotted with red and glitter   

stands in metal, filled with water.   

Four screws gouge its trunk,   

erect it in the family room.   

This is our refuge, a piece of life   

here by our fire on this darkest day of the year,   

just before we stop this migration   

to begin our way back   

to the light.   

In the garden trees wait patiently, faithfully, befriended   

by true red cardinals, while inside,   

this pine glows with blue, yellow, green, red lights,   

strung in pearls, crystal frills, gilt trim,   

a gauzy angel on top,   

reminding us to believe.   

ii   

Across the road, above us   

below us, behind the frozen   

vegetable garden, choices are made to douse   

the lawn in pesticides come spring,   

trade the car for an SUV,   

burn gun registrations in front of news cameras,   

purchase ten million doses of smallpox vaccinations,   

just in case. Pacifists in blue denim   

get in the way, carry signs,   

walk and talk.   

Outside this town, pinstriped politicians   

far from their families, calculate war,   

cost out strategies, leak bits of news, just enough   

to shape opinion, shake off fears,   

keep the markets steady;   

it’s a balancing act   

performed just above our heads.   

But we are poised   

to distance or align ourselves   

when the time is right, one eye on stock markets,   

one eye on spilt blood; we’ll say we were always opposed,   

the price too high, or it had to be done,   

though it’s dirty work.   

Either way we expect to be alive,   

our homes and jobs intact, our pensions   

secure.   

iii   

On this darkest day of the year, my daughters   

rehearse songs they will soon perform on violins;   

eyes fixed on music, hands loosely gripping bows,   

fingers searching out notes.   

I want to warn them about brutes, leaders, lies,   

people who easily forget, but standing beside that lighted tree   

in the family room just before midday,   

they are oblivious to my unease.  At once they look up at me   

standing in the kitchen   

cradling a cup of tea   

with both hands.   

I mouth the words, I love you,   

and hope it is enough.   

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