Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Before the Longest Night of the Year

I woke up yesterday to my son touching my arm.

"Will you come and lay down by me?" he asked. The sky was dark and I checked my clock. Early.

Sometimes the earliest mornings are the greatest gifts to an anxious soul. So I took advantage.

"Yes, let me grab my journal and I'll write."

It had been nine months since I had written last. I tried to write everything down I find significant in my life right now. And then I thumbed through the last few years of my life.

2013: I feel a strange loneliness

A strange loneliness indeed. I was born with it and it followed me around like a childhood dog. And here I am, still well-acquainted with this feeling. Comes and goes. I take note of its presence and absence. I'm sure this blog is full of posts about this sentiment, this friend (I guess?) I've carried with me forever.

There is no cure for this--it is what it is. It is me. I think maybe, some of us thinkers think through tunnels so deep that there are few who can understand (at least that's what we think)(I suspect we're just not advanced enough in language to communicate this experience). It's strange to be in those places, and it's lonely. Strange and lonely.

And the loss of light on the earth doesn't help.

But because Anson gave me the gift of an early morning, and after he was settled back down, I took it outside to a still, ashy pre-dawn. I slipped into the hot tub and kept my eye on the white mountains just east of me. In a few moments the top of Cascade Mountain flashed a pinky-orange and clouds moved in trails towards the Wasatch Back. Light from the top of Slate Canyon appeared and the sky turned into a melted pastel Popsicle-yellows, pinks, blues. The pines on Y Mountain appeared like black statues standing watch over the the sunrise. The fir tree to the south filtered in a warm light, past the steel grass and into the hot water where I sat.

Light.

It is a reprieve for the strange loneliness.

And I was grateful for it.