Hi, sweet friends. I’ve been thinking a lot about light and darkness this week (and always). I received news on Tuesday evening that the administration is planning to dismantle my workplace and it sent me into a despair spiral. I didn’t feel like creating anything - certainly not anything that would make me feel “hopeful” (scoff) and so, for 24 hours I sat in my sadness. I went for a walk and took a shower and talked to friends and did some basic self care, but mostly I doomscrolled, listened to music while staring into space, and took some beta blockers (some of which is self care too, I suppose). Then, on Wednesday evening, we had one of my most beloved winter traditions scheduled - a walk through our local botanic gardens for their annual Blossoms of Light celebration. I didn’t want to go! At all! But it was so grounding and healing and good to be there amongst the lights with my family. It was a literal reminder of light in the darkness and of the power of moving through that darkness in community.

This week also brings Hanukkah and the solstice - two occasions where light and hope are intertwined. I saw a post on Instagram from Dr. Zelena Montminy in which she said, “Hanukkah begins with a story many people know at the surface about candles, miracles, light in the darkness. But its deeper truth is something every human understands, whether you celebrate or not. At its core, Hanukkah is about this: What do we do when what we have is not enough for what we’re facing?” What do we do when what we have is not enough for what we’re facing? Oof. This question has been chasing me through the week and I haven’t found any easy answers. 

A friend and I talked earlier this year about how tenderness and tending are part of the same root. Tender comes from the joint roots of the Latin tendere ("to stretch, extend") and tener ("soft, delicate"). To be tender is to stretch and extend softly. To be a tender is to do the same. I think that may be my joint work at this moment - so stay tender while tending to myself, others, and our collective light. 

Dr. Zelena again: ““Light does not have to be big to be real. It does not have to be certain. It does not have to be impressive. It just has to be tended.” 

On Wednesday after my kiddos were in bed I sat down and made some watercolors of recent December skies I’ve loved. It has been a banner month for skies here and I’ve been basking in sunsets. I love a liminal space and that transition from light to darkness with all its showy pinks and oranges and purples and blues is one of my favorite times of day. It felt so good to paint the sky. Felt so good, in the darkness of my house, to think about calling the light back. Felt so good to tend to my creative spirit.

Nina MacLaughlin wrote a beautiful series of columns for The Paris Review about the winter solstice and I’ve made it a tradition to read them on December 21st the past few years. Here she is in the final column: “Now it’s now. Here we are. The Winter Solstice. The close of the year, the opening of a season—welcome, winter—the longest night, and light gets born again. Today is tied with its twin in the summer for the most powerful day of the year. Light a fire. Light a fire on this day. Let something burn. That is what the solstices are for. Summer flames say, Keep the light alive (it’s never worked, not once). In winter, a more urgent message: Bring light back to life (it’s worked every time so far).”

It’s worked every time so far. It’s worked every time so far. It’s worked every time so far. Light, tended, illuminates what’s next. Staying tender keeps your internal light alive to do the same.

The solstice, as MacLaughlin says, gives us the opportunity to see the “both and and and”s of life. It is a day when “all the oppositions are alive, not in tension, but melting together, joined in the rolling-tolling ring of things. Tonight, there is space for all of it at once, the irreconcilables, the rival forces, the great dualities.”

There is space for despair here alongside hope. Space for creation in the midst of destruction. Space for tending and bringing together and finding abundance even while others try to rend and divide and sow seeds of scarcity. Even when those seeds of scarcity are in our own minds. So tend a candle. Go see some lights in the gardens. Talk to a friend. Find ways to stretch the oil. Extend softly. And ground in the knowledge that we’re here figuring it out, together.