Even light, which travels so fast that it takes most races thousands of years to realize that it travels at all, takes time to journey between the stars. It takes eight minutes to journey from the star Sol to the place where the Earth used to be, and four years more to arrive at Sol's nearest stellar neighbor, Alpha Proxima.
For light to reach the other side of the Galaxy, for it to reach Damogran, for instance, takes rather longer: five hundred thousand years . . .
Greeting, loyal disciples, on this long, dark, winter solstice night.
You know, I don't have a problem with darkness. As a writer and poet, I tend to embrace darkness in my work. If you are one of my two constant readers, you have probably already figured this little fact out about me. Scrooge liked darkness because it was cheap. I like darkness because it's only through darkness that we find light.
Last night's performances of The Red Jacket Jamboree went quite well. I got to hang out with my friends onstage and backstage, singing and laughing and doing the Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland thing--putting on a show. After the show, I met up with an old (figuratively--as in I've known her for a while) friend. It was so good to see her and visit for a few, all-too-brief moments. That's my first moment of light in darkness.
This afternoon, I gave a poetry reading at my home-town library. I read poems and an essay, and my friend, Linda, provided songs and music. We had a small audience--three friends who read about the reading and decided to show up. It was intimately wonderful. We all celebrated this season of light. That was my second moment of light in darkness.
Then, I played the pipe organ for the 4:30 Mass at my home church. Lots of "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" and "People Look East." We were celebrating the Fourth Sunday of Advent, and the Gospel readings focused on the birth narrative of Christ. It filled my heart with anticipation for the coming of Christmas. Third moment of light in darkness.
In the evening, after the sun disappeared around 5:06 p.m., I set myself to finish decorating my mother's house for Christmas. I put the tree up last weekend. Tonight, I strung a whole lot of colored lights through the living room and down the hallway to the bedroom I had as a child. (My mother and sister now share the room.) By the time I was done, all the halls were decked with light. Fourth moment of light in darkness.
Now, this evening, even though I am in the heart of night, my Christmas tree is glowing next to my leg lamp. (It was a major award!) My daughter is up in her room, watching a movie with her boyfriend. My son just went to bed and told me he's probably going to be crabby in the morning because he's tired. Some people see family as something to escape. Something that takes away your identity and freedom. I see family as a source of light in my life. I don't know what I'd be without my family. This is my final moment of light in darkness on this winter solstice.
It may take light five minutes to reach us. Or five years. Or five hundred thousand years. But light always finds us.
Saint Marty is filled with light tonight.
"Fra-gi-le...I think its Italian!"
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