December 21, 2023
Solstice, cold and bright. I went to the riverside determined to write, and I did. Concentration allowed me to ignore the cold, which lessened, anyway, minute by minute as the sun climbed. A woman carried her cat to the bank and let him play in the shallows. Her dog, in a white jacket, followed. The dog greeted me briefly, sat by me, maybe because I hogged the best patch of sun. Geese floated on the far side, as did a dark bird I could not identify (damn these glasses) which moved with amazing speed without taking to the air. Something in that tableau opened the door to deep and for the most part unidentifiable grief. I crossed the river and climbed high into the dry, broken woods and wept. The cat was part of it. I miss my cats. I will be alone this Christmas for the first time in thirty-five years. But beyond that– desolation, isolation, futility beyond all cats. I sat in the wilderness where I could howl my spirit out without detection. Could hardly make it back to the car for exhaustion afterward. Still haven’t figured it out. My emotions were beyond my own understanding. They were bigger than I. Some cleansing power of the Solstice, perhaps. At the very depth, at the dark place beneath the darkest place, I hear my voice crying out please. . . please. . . please. That the Lord will not answer is the stumbling block to all my faith.
French Christmas music from the Internet.
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