Walking toward the dawn

All throughout these months
as the shadows
have lengthened,
this blessing has been
gathering itself,
making ready,
preparing for
this night.
It has practiced
walking in the dark,
traveling with
its eyes closed,
feeling its way
by memory
by touch
by the pull of the moon
even as it wanes.
So believe me
when I tell you
this blessing will
reach you
even if you
have not light enough
to read it;
it will find you
even though you cannot
see it coming.
You will know
the moment of its
arriving
by your release
of the breath
you have held
so long;
a loosening
of the clenching
in your hands,
of the clutch
around your heart;
a thinning
of the darkness
that had drawn itself
around you.
This blessing
does not mean
to take the night away
but it knows
its hidden roads,
knows the resting spots
along the path,
knows what it means
to travel
in the company
of a friend.
So when
this blessing comes,
take its hand.
Get up.
Set out on the road
you cannot see.
This is the night
when you can trust
that any direction
you go,
you will be walking
toward the dawn.
​© Jan Richardson from The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief. janrichardson.com

It is a mystery and a marvel, this one life we’ve been given to live. It’s a treasure sometimes, a trudge sometimes. Sometimes the sun feels warm on my face and sometimes it feels like gale-force wind doing her best to push me backward. Sometimes it’s as though there is a bell ringing in a way that holds all of time – what was and is and surely will be.
 
Today marks the Winter Solstice. It is the one day each year we are invited to mark the longest night, the shortest day. For many of us it is our time to recognize the grief we hold. Today on this Winter Solstice, we acknowledge these growing darker hours for ourselves and for one another.
 
It is a deep comfort to be companioned by another soul during these growing darker days. It is a solace to be loved by someone so much that that dear one is willing to walk with you through these growing darker hours. There’s a trust that acknowledges vulnerability, and a belief (somehow) that this walking in the dark (this darkness either brought to us or brought on by us), is something that doesn’t have to be done alone. Jan’s blessing knows about that kind of trust and believing. Her writing of “Blessing for the Longest Night” is a treasured, graceful gift for us on this shortest day knowing that the longest night follows.
 
Ann’s picture was taken a couple mornings ago while she was out walking her dogs. Poway, California is now my favorite place on earth for moment holding. When I saw it, I could see darkness holding light and light holding darkness. In this picture I felt comforted that both could be done simultaneously.  
 
It feels like my heart has been preparing for this longest night for a while now, maybe for you as well. Jan’s words and Ann’s picture can abide with us as we make our way through what comes today. Each capturing a moment of grace, these women offer encouragement, reassurance, hope.
 
Since I’ve been singing so much more, I’ve been caught up in the wonders and surprises of what music brings. One is the notion of overtones. I've been talking with Lori and trying to explain why I love them so much. There’s an intellectual comprehension and then there’s an experiential-body understanding. I know much more about the latter. This past Sunday the San Diego Women’s Chorus performed our Winter concert in the sanctuary of the First United Methodist Church here in San Diego. It was the most amazing place to sing. We sang Jan’s Blessing during the concert. At the end of her song, it felt as though I could hear the space continuing to sing. It was the ringing of the overtones. Somehow when voices are perfectly matched together and they finish singing their final notes, there is a ringing of an octave above, and maybe something a fifth added and every now and then a third can sometimes join in. Scholars can tell you all about this. For me it’s a heart thing more than a head thing. For me it's a choir of angels adding their voices.
 
I believe that angels are always listening and every now and then, they delight so much in our song or the Blessing Prayer or our picture of a sunrise, that they just can’t help themselves. They jubilantly raise their voices as well. They find a note (or a phrase from Jan’s words or a cloud from Ann’s picture) and faithfully, hopefully, joyfully add their most beautiful `Amen.’ And it is good.
​

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