Carmel Mawle

Growing up in Alaska, summer days were long and warm and generous. No sooner had the sun dipped into Cook Inlet, than it began its climb back into the sky. In the winter, the opposite was true.  Winter’s long nights stretched their cold tendrils into the day.

That said, I remember being mystified by my parents’ friends who headed south for the cold months. Even our darkest night contained light. The Alaska state flag honors that light with seven stars of gold on a field of blue. My winter days were spent beneath a multitude of twinkling stars, the moon, and undulating aurora borealis. Reflected light glistened from fields of snow and frost-covered trees. My childhood winters were not dark, they were magical.

Maybe I’d have felt differently if I’d been commuting by car to work every day. My sister and I cross country skied two miles (uphill both ways) through wilderness to the paved road, where we caught the school bus. We buried our skis in the snow bank there, so we could retrieve them at the end of the school day. Then, with stars studding the sky, we made the same trip home again.

In the winter, the teachers flooded the playground and created an ice rink where we played crack-the-whip. We built snow forts, snowmen, and had snowball wars. We shoveled the pond in the woods behind our A-frame for our own bumpy rink, and brought thermoses of hot cocoa to warm our hands and cheeks. In the mornings, there were crystalline works of window art and new tracks through the snow.

As an adult, I have more empathy for those suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder. My husband and I live in the Rocky Mountains and I love the quiet winters there. But, with so much darkness, my energy reserves run low. I think that’s true for a lot of us. We begin our day before the sun comes up, and the day’s work isn’t done until long after dark – no doubt, a metaphor for our time.

But still we rise. Because we must.

And there’s strength for the long winter nights in a common truth.  That nothing is permanent except change. Darkness, in itself, is unsustainable.

Jalal al-Din Muhammad Rumi, a 13^th century Sufi poet, said:

We bury our seeds and wait,
Winter blocks the road,
Flowers are taken prisoner underground,
But then green justice tenders a spear.

On this Solstice evening, we are reminded that – even at its most powerful – darkness cannot keep us from the light. Dark days will give way to the warmth and generosity of summer. Like the arc of moral justice, the earth’s gradual tilting toward the sun is inevitable.

I’ll close with another of Rumi’s thoughts:

“If everything around seems dark, look again, you may be the light.”

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