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Solstice

I type in the light of a candle and a Douglas fir adorned with electric strings of incandescent filaments.

I’d realized earlier it was solstice, Yule, the rebirth of the diminished Sun, my religious holy-day, and I’d “done nothing”. My lifemate, my atheist, found me a candle and a match, and brought it to me to light. In a dark night, at the end of a dark conversation in which I poured on him the dregs of my soul — I am nothing, I will be nothing, I can do nothing, all the oft-repeated protestations of a sleep-deprived anxietic –, he brought me exactly what I needed to bring forth flame. A little fire, while my soul strains for conflagrations. But enough.

There is still dark. I sit in the dark. But there is light, too, and I am surrounded by those who are here to help me make more. Day by day, a little more light, a little more sanity, a little more love and peace and hope: not handed to me, but crafted by me with the support of many hands.

Happy Solstice. May you have a candle in all dark times, and someone to bring you one when you lack.

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