Flickers

of shadow and light

Greetings everyone. Here we are already in the last week of January. The one year anniversary of being laid off [again] came and went last week, and I’m happy to have turned the corner on that experience [again]. I’m just over two months into a new job that seems to be working out fairly well, there are some good book events¹ on the horizon (including the release of my next poetry collection), and there is snow on the ground, unlike last year at this time. There’s plenty of stuff going on that isn’t worth celebrating, of course, but there’s room for acknowledging what’s still good (or has even improved) alongside that which remains a mess.

What follows is something I wrote in January of 2021. I happened upon it today as I was mulling what I write for this week’s newsletter, and despite being written four years ago, it seems to speak to where we are today as well. Interestingly the first line includes ‘shadow and light’ which is part of the title of my next book. Thanks for being here, and for reading.

The flames are dancing in the wood stove, sending little flickers of shadow and light around the room. I can hear the clock ticking over my left shoulder, marking the seconds as they go by. It’s dark outside, and overcast. There’s no moonlight. The coyotes who have been chattering every night for weeks have gone silent for now. The house is quiet and still.

Things in the world remain tumultuous. Events in recent weeks have left people feeling unsettled and anxious about what might happen next. I wonder about what will take place in the days to come. It’s hard not to feel at least a bit of trepidation when “unprecedented” remains the media’s chosen descriptive tool and new astonishing headlines seem to appear every time you refresh the page.

But despite living in these unprecedented times, I find a bit of solace by accepting a few simple things: that most of what’s going to happen on the world stage (along with plenty of what’s going to happen closer to home) in the next few weeks is outside of my direct control. But how I respond to whatever does come to pass remains in my grasp. Unprecedented or not. And the tiny, intentional practices that keep me grounded and able to respond how I want to respond are small enough to pick up again if I stumble and lose my grip.

These things are there for you, too, in whatever combination works in your life, to hold onto as we step into the void of tomorrow.

How I show up in my day. What I give my attention to, and where I put my energy. How I watch the steam rising from a hot cup of tea, and how I savor the first sip. What I spend my first and last moments of the day engaged in. The language I use and the words I choose to ask for what I need and extend what I have to give. The way I notice the crunch of snow underfoot and the tiny tracks left by my non-human neighbors. The prayer I whisper into the plume of candle smoke. The love I give. The love I accept. The boundaries I set. The boundaries I honor. The values I live by, and the willingness to peer, even if just for a little while, at something from someone else’s perspective.²

The sunset from the field across the road from the driveway a few weeks ago. It was really cold—but instead of heading straight inside after getting home from work, I crunched across the frozen ground to witness the day’s last light leaving. It was worth the temporary discomfort.

If there is any sort of strange gift³ in all of this unprecedented uncertainty and unrest, perhaps it is a chance to look at where our power lies. A chance to slow things down enough during the average day to see opportunities for change. A chance to live, fully here, right now. A chance to build the capacity to cultivate life-giving soil and deepen our roots. A chance to discern what truly matters to us, and stand for it, no matter what. A chance to see those flickers of shadow and light and step into the dance with them. No matter what happens next.

So, folks, look for the flickers of shadow and light, bear witness to what is happening around you, help somebody else when you can, and accept aid when you need it.

A poem from Just Wild Enough.

1. Such as the Featured Authors Fair at Northtown Library on Saturday, March 1 from 10am to 1pm. I’ll be there with copies of my featured book, Collisions of Earth and Sky, as well as some of the others (including the forthcoming poetry one if my author copies arrive in time!)

2. This paragraph, or something close to it anyway, got included in a chapter in Collisions of Earth and Sky.

3. I’m not saying that you have to ‘find the gift’ in tragedy or in hard things as they happen. But, sometimes the little glimmers present themselves. Some things are just plain terrible, too. Feel what you need to feel, and if you don’t feel positive about it, that’s okay. All vibes are necessary, not just the positive ones.