This time of year always feels wonderfully introspective to me. There’s something about the darkness (and the blessed, cozy rain of Portland) that urges me indoors and into myself. There’s a small glow inside my heart, and it yearns to be tended. It’s a time for goal setting, list making, talismans for those I love. I want to make things, sit quietly, and soak in what and who I love.
In my pseudo-scientific analysis of the universe, it’s a little hibernation, the dormant season of plants, or the gestation of bulbs below the surface. There are religious contexts to this, too: the contemplative time of Advent, the peaceful awaiting of the Winter Solstice.
I’ve had a few crazy weeks of work-related extroversion, and my soul feels scraped. I’ve been too tender of heart for anyone’s comfort, really, and I feel a wildness in my eyes. I’ve tried my best to hold parts of myself back in reserve, but no matter what I do, I cannot seem to stop shining at people; it leaves me totally depleted.
And so, this morning, here I am gladly gazing at my navel on this largely forgotten corner of the internet. I’ve lit a candle, and I’m watching it glow quietly on my kitchen counter. I’m plotting projects, sinking deeply into my imagination, and tending my heart.