Anniversary of Hope

On the longest night I fly among the stars, as far from home as I could be, and I am not afraid up there, gliding through the dark syrup between heaven and Earth. The luscious Solstice lightlessness is music against my skin, a meditation tickling the hair on my arms, passing through me, inside and out of me, spiraling into my ears, sliding against my cheek as I ride the luminescence, witness to mystery. I dream.

Writer Billie Best celebrates the Winter Solstice

Tis the season of angels. They send us messengers. On wings they watch us seek and strive. They announce children to guide us, candles to light our way, remembrance of our history, the battles of our ancestors, a star in the East, shepherds, kings and Little Match Girls, stockings hung with care, the scent of the forest, and choirs billowing bright against the licorice sky.

From the great distance of my dream I see all of it, the realm of my existence. Long nights bathe us in unknowing, washing over us with surrender, respite from the busy light, a retreat from endeavor, a smoothing of the soul into ripples of being, and we are reminded of the roll of time, the ride we are born into, the immutable horizon, the trust we must place in ourselves, the nourishment of sleep. With circadian rhythm the longest nights lift the burden of day. The calendar slows. Our doing dives deep within us.

My strongest recollection of flying is the absence of fear. The weight of gravity lifted from me. I became a constellation of bones. I could see with my heart. Above and below me were one place, and I was without apprehension. There was no falling. My letting go was effortless. I heard no words, no messages, no instructions, no warning, only the shimmer of possibilities, an openness without expectation, the iridescence of promise.

There are many traditions of light in the season of the longest night. Flame holds our gaze with singular focus. We transcend and soften in stories of ancient times, stories of being lost, stories of connecting with our forever selves. These stories give us meaning. The oldest stories told on the longest night guide the flight of our species into the future. Let yourself fly. Explore. Dream. Believe.  

I say this with the barest thread of understanding as I mark the place in my mind where neither height, nor weight, nor the clumsiness of my intentions held me back from soaring into the unknown, without fear, unfreckled by doubt, a being with and without form, whole and unto myself, rapt in mystery. On Solstice eve I sail beyond myself into a kingdom of spirits celebrating the sun in repose, freed by the absence of light from the ordinary labors of day to receive the darkness as a gift of rest, the anniversary of hope, and a time to dream of our becoming.

Related Post

8 thoughts on “Anniversary of Hope

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *