Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Hello darkness my old friend

At 21 minutes past 11 on Saturday night, the tipping moment came when our (us southerners') half of the sphere we live on began rolling into shadow. I can't quite get the science of equinox or the big picture visuals, but I do know that days feel quieter, more sombre, even though we are surely only edging our way into the dark by degrees.

Over the past week my own world has likewise dipped gently on its axis. I've felt curiously in a shadow-land, and have been feeling my way into corners where light is dimmed, and shapes are not familiar. The metaphor that's made most sense of this place is soil. I'm aware that most of our fellow flora allow their life to migrate down underground, and I'm wondering if winter's pull works similarly in us.

Ten days ago, and again two weeks prior, I took part in two ceremonies at two special sites where my sister Annie's ashes were poured (poured?!) into the soil. My unconscious is hard at work in dreams (including one where my own after-death bones were crushed) as I try to process this, existentially and emotionally. My conscious mind is wandering about, wondering how and where to articulate what this means for me, and for us. (We together diaried our shared journey through the final year of her life seven years ago. Surely there are words for this page of our story.)

Meanwhile, the darkness, and the deep dirt, have also become rich in meaning over these past days. A picture I keep returning to is the image of a fallen tree, which I passed by on a beach walk with two dear friends last weekend. It was a big tree; it had a wide-girthed, sturdy trunk. Its root system was beautiful - strong plump outward-reaching arms, some of which wound and interwound in a circular formation around its base, like a hug. Meanwhile the roots that went down, the ones designed to hold and nourish the tree, were thin and short - a spindly apology. I can't help thinking what a fine tree it would have looked when upright, with its fat roots bulging above the ground.

And so, in the middle of the night and adrift, I stopped tipping my chin up for air, but went down instead. What are my roots? What's going to hold me when the wind or the axe strikes hard? I can almost say I liked going down; being there with them.
Hello winter. Welcome.

12 comments:

  1. And perhaps in the slower, dimmer world of winter, you will be able to go down there, for roots, to write about your sister's death--not something you wrote together, though that is infinitely priceless and extraordinary--but maybe about you, as you-without-her? Forgive me if I'm stumbling. Perhaps you have been down there with them already. But maybe it's time to revisit the darkness. Winter is a time of deep reflection. You welcomed winter. You will be strong enough for whatever it is you need to do, if it's 'down there' or wondering about how it will be to not be. Blessings on you, Pam. You'll be in my thoughts. Love, Melissa

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  2. "...I've come to talk with you again..."
    There's something softer but stronger too (forgive the toilet paper connotations) about talking in the dark. And it helps you not to get too freaked out. Take your time down there... Arohanui.

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  3. Such poignant writing here, Pam. Tthe axis tilts and life goes on, but from now in a different way.

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  4. Hibernation is a state I can understand; I'm not certain we are intended to run at top speed year-round. As part of nature, how can we be exempt from its cycles? Events cause us to grow sober and turn to our own resources, or our questions. Wishing you whatever roots you seek, whatever words may continue the story you and your sister shared.

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  5. Dear Melissa, something tells me you are right. That this part of the dual story is a deeper encounter with the me alone story. One that may or may not need to be told. Thank you (again) for your loving, warm and ready response. Px

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  6. Thanks JB. I especially appreciate your encouragement to take my time. Thanks too for being in touchable reach in the dark night hours. X

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  7. Hi Elisabeth, good to hear from you. Yes life does go on, even with a different slant of the sun, and we find our way.

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  8. Hi Marylinn - for sure! We ignore those cycles at our slow peril. One way or another - coaxed or shaken by the scruff of the neck, the rhythms find us. It's not always an easy surrender though. Thanks for hearing and responding.

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  9. dear pam, i am rushing around the blogs this morning, too much work ahead of me to be very thoughtful or articulate, but i just wanted to let you know that i had stopped by...and was very moved by this poignant and beautifully written posting. xo
    susan

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  10. a lovely blog...I can't imagine writing so touchingly about the coming of winter, nor about the coming of spring which is most slowly happening here..
    thank you

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  11. Thanks Melissa, I appreciate your coming by. Enjoy the slow rise of the sap!

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