There is something special in contrast.
We might just need it to grow — to be able to notice the differences between things.
In noticing differences, we discover early on in our development that we have choices.
But without that contrast, and without noticing those differences, one from another, everything seems just the same to us. As a baby, my nervous system helped me to sense the contrast between experiences and then to let my parents know whether I liked or didn’t like warm water vs. cold water vs. hot water for my bath. And the one I liked yesterday might not be the one I need today, even by the difference of oner degree. I sensed in that moment and let them know, by coo and ease or by howl and wail.
As I think about my experiences with past winter solstices — and their glaring differences with its summer sibling — I can remember times when I craved the deep-sleep darkness that winter brings and I can remember times when I craved the light growing minute by minute each day after the solstice until day equaled night again at the spring equinox.
Differences. Noticing differences. Contrast. Choices.
Perhaps there is wisdom in craving the slumber darkness invites and in craving the light too…and perhaps a wiser, mature path is not to crave at all but instead to appreciate the gift that arrives in the unfolding, with each breath, with knowing that it will all keep changing…both my cravings and the environment/unfolding-moment itself.
Tonight (Wednesday) at 6:30pm ET via Zoom we have our annual Winter Solstice journaling-celebration, for journalers and non-journalers alike. This being our 12th year of Winter Solstice parties, Penny has a wise way of helping all of us find a gentled place in the circle with one another.
Reach out before 6pm for the Zoom link so you can enjoy the time with us. I sent the link out to all who’ve already emailed me, though if it got lost in the email shuffle, just reach out again.
Cozy pajamas welcome near your computer/phone…a contrast with the liminal chill in the newly wintered air.
What might emerge for you this liminal day/night?
Brian Shircliff
