The sun is out today. A few minutes ago I took my cup of coffee and stood on the sidewalk outside of my office, just feeling the light of the sun on my face. I can remember a time when I hardly paid attention to when the sun was out and when it was cloudy, to how many hours of daylight we would see.
But sometime in my mid-twenties that started to shift, and I’ve become keenly aware of sunshine and daylight and seasonal shifts. I will always love a good stormy spring day or a dark and chilly fall evening. I love when it’s dark in December and all the Christmas lights are up and twinkling.
But sometime in late fall I start to miss the long, summer days. There’s a specific panicked feeling I get when it starts to get dark around 4:00. I start to miss the golden warmth of the sun. And, though I know that technically December 21 is the shortest day of the year, this feeling reaches a fever pitch in mid- to late- January. Christmas is over, and the pretty lights are down. It’s still dark, more dark, always dark. There is still lots of winter left, and spring feels so far away.
I know that a lot of people experience this struggle. Unfortunately, for a long time this was one of those things that I would hear people complain about and just brush off. There’s nothing we can do to change the weather or the length of winter, what’s the use in complaining about it?
But, like so many things, once I started to experience the struggle, I realized that it was so much more challenging than I had imagined. I never knew how physical the need for light can be, how claustrophobic it can feel to go days without seeing the sun, to always feel surrounded by night.
It seems highly unlikely that I will ever live in a place with more sun or more daylight, so I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on this experience. And, because I love a good metaphor, I’ve realized how closely a physical craving for light can parallel the emotional need for light, for relief, for illumination.
I can remember discussing this struggle with a mentor back when we were living in Vermont. She encouraged me to start paying attention to the lengthening of days. After December 21, the days start to get longer. Night starts to shrink and daytime starts to grow. Once I started to connect to this, I became aware that, though winter might be long, signs of light and spring begin just as winter is technically starting. I pay close attention to what time the sun comes up and goes down, and I appreciate the slowly lengthening days.
I’ve also learned to anchor myself to other physical cues that providing grounding and centering. I fill my house with lamps, candles, and twinkle lights (before Christmas they are Christmas lights, after January 1 they become twinkle lights). I reach for warm blankets, thick socks, and soft sweaters. I almost always have a hot cup of coffee, tea, or lemon water within reach. These physical cues provide grounding and comfort, particularly in the absence of natural sunlight.
I try to see the darkness and the cold as cues for mindfulness and breath. When I start to feel the darkness encroaching, I take slow deep breaths. I pay attention to that which is still and quiet and cozy. I practice gratitude.
And finally, I’m trying to learn to make friends with the dark. What might there be to experience and enjoy about the darkness? What might I have to learn from the contrast between light and dark, from the darkness itself? What if I could learn to see the darkness as friendly and gentle?
Mid-January to April is the most challenging season for me; so rather than just actively dreading and despising it, I am learning to accept it and make friends with it. I am learning to find the beauty in the cold, short days and the long, dark nights.