December 20, 2024: "Florida in December," Winter Solstice Eve, "Dear God/Santa/Universe/Bigfoot/Elvis,"

I met with two wonderful people this morning--one poet friend who came to my office to write with me, another poet/healer friend who guided me through an energy session.  After I left my poet/healer friend's home, I felt lighter than I have in weeks.  It was sort of like Christmas morning, just a few days early.

My last day of work for the year at the library.  It was a push to get everything done.  Edited a podcast episode.  Answered emails.  Planned a few events for the start of 2025.  By the time I left the building, it was 4:30 p.m., and the sun was already fading from the sky.  

When I got home after work, my wife and I took our puppy for a long walk in the cold, clear night.

Billy Collins goes for an evening stroll, too . . . 

Florida in December

by: Billy Collins

From this dock by a lake 

where I walked down after a late dinner— 

some clouds blown like gauze across the stars, 

and every so often an airplane 

crossing the view from left to right, 

its green starboard wing light 

descending against this soft wind into the city airport. 

The permanent stars, 

I think on the walk back to the house, 

and the momentary clouds in their vaporous shapes, 

I go on, my hands clasped behind my back 

like a professor of nothing in particular. 

Then I am near enough to the house— 

warm, amber windows, 

cold dots of lights from the Christmas tree, 

glad to have seen those clouds, now blown away, 

happy to be under the stars, 

constant and swirling in the firmament, 

and here on the threshold of this house 

with all its work and hope, 

and steady enough under a fixed and shifting sky.

At the end of this long week, I find myself pretty tired.  Tomorrow is the Winter Solstice.  That means there will be only eight hours and 32 minutes of daylight.  Having battled darkness for over a month now, I've been sort of experiencing an extended Winter Solstice.  After tomorrow night, the light starts to return.  Slowly.  Second by second, and minute by minute.

Work and busyness have helped me fend off sadness these last 30 or so days.  I have to admit that I'm a little apprehensive about having so much "free" time these upcoming weeks.  Without the distraction of college teaching and library programming, I may just curl into a fetal position on the couch and binge watch every version of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol that I can find.

Tonight, however, I give thanks for two wonderful friends who gave me hope this morning.  I also give thanks for another friend who messaged me today after listening to me reading my annual Christmas essay on Public Radio.  She wrote, "Your words are gifts to the people of the Upper Peninsula!"  Pretty amazing to be surrounded by so much light on Winter Solstice Eve.

Here's something (very rough) that Saint Marty wrote this morning with his poet friend:

Dear God/Santa/Universe/Bigfoot/Elvis,

by: Martin Achatz

I would like daily naps, breaks

around lunch time--after my ham sandwich,

before vacuuming, writing the next poem,

reading the next social media post that keeps

me awake until that time

when even the snow is asleep. 

Chocolate.  Always chocolate.

Which is just a wish for sweetness

in my life, something to remind me

I am loved even if the dishes aren't washed,

bed not made, or car brakes grind

like teeth in the middle of night.

Peace would be nice.  I'm not

even sure what I mean by that.

Maybe peace of mind--everything

working like the engine of a furnace

on a cold January night.  Or maybe

I mean world peace.  Ukrainians 

breaking bread with Russian

soldiers in Odessa, Muslims and Jews 

dancing together in the streets of Gaza.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's a cardinal

sitting in the branches of a pine tree

in my backyard, painting the world

with the bright brushes of its wings.