The descent

A gentle slide or an abrupt tumble?

We (all of us in the northern hemisphere at least) are in the descent, trundling towards the calendar’s dark days. The first time I’ve had to switch a light on in months. The first outing of my itchy wool jumper. We feel it in our bones.

Said lamp and itchy jumper

I am still learning (suspect I will always be a student of) how to surrender to the darkness, the giamos. How to embrace the holding space of the dreamtime allocated to us by the tilt of this planet, by our sun, by the stars.

A view of the lough through the leaves

I used to fight it. I’d spend those dark days in a state of longing and deep frustration with the long nights, the rain. It’s different now. As we turn, I soften a little more each year.

Beautiful leaf and dog

I see possibilities dancing their strange dances in the shadows. I hear the whispers of wisdom which live only in the mystery. I feel how integral darkness is to growth, to life itself. Life is a paradox.

A tree of the sidhe at lough awe

The resistance might always be there for me, but I have to admit it’s easier this way; treating the descent as a gentle, meandering slide, rather than a steep cliff face to hurl myself against, aching for the light.¹

1. Thank you Alison Darnbrough for bringing the prompt by Tom Hirons which inspired this. His poem is called The Secret Sun (On Time’s Shore), from his collection called Queen of the Night