A friend sent me this. It is worth passing on in this dark time.
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| Monet “Snow in Argenteuil” (1875). |
By Mary Pipher. Dr. Pipher is a clinical psychologist
and writer in Lincoln, Neb., and the author, most recently, of “A Life in
Light: Meditations on Impermanence.”
The mornings are dark, the late afternoons are dusky, and before
we finish making dinner, the daylight is gone. As we approach the darkest days of the year, we’re confronted with the
darkness of wars, a dysfunctional government, fentanyl deaths, mass shootings
and reports of refugees crawling through the Darién Gap or floundering in small
boats in the Mediterranean. And we cannot avoid the tragedy of climate change
with its droughts, floods, fires and hurricanes. Indeed, the world is pummeled
with misfortune.
We can count ourselves lucky if we do not live in a war zone
or a place without food or drinking water, but we read the news. We see the
disasters on our screens. Ukraine, Israel and Gaza are all inside us. If we are
empathic and awake, we share the pain of all the world’s tragedies in our
bodies and in our souls. We cannot and should not try to block out those
feelings of pain. When we try, we are kept from feeling much of anything, even
love and joy. We cannot deny reality, but we can control how much we take in.
I am in the last decades of life, and sometimes I feel that
my country and our species are also nearing end times. The despair I feel about
the world would ruin me if I did not know how to find light. Whatever is
happening in the world, whatever is happening in our personal lives, we can
find light.
This time of year, we must look for it. I am up for sunrise
and outside for sunset. I watch the moon rise and traverse the sky. I light
candles early in the evening and sit by the fire to read. And I walk outside
under the blue-silver sky of the Nebraska winter. If there is snow, it
sparkles, sometimes like a blanket of diamonds, other times reflecting the
orange and lavender glow of a winter sunset.
We can watch the birds. Recently, it was the two flickers at
my suet feeder with the yellow undersides of their wings flashing, the male so
redheaded and protective, the female so hungry. Today, it may be the juncos,
hopping about our driveway, looking for seeds. The birds are always nearby.
Their calls are temple bells reminding me to be grateful.
For other kinds of light, we can turn to our friends and
family. Nothing feels more like sunlight than walking into a room full of
people who are happy to see me. I think of my son and daughter-in-law on my
birthday, Zeke making homemade ravioli and Jamie baking an apple cake, their
shining eyes radiating love. Or of my friends, sitting outdoors around a
campfire in coats and hats, reciting poetry and singing songs.
We also have the light of young children. My own
grandchildren are far away, but I spend time with 9-year-old Kadija. My husband
and I are sponsoring her family; they arrived here from Afghanistan, with only
the father speaking English, just a few months ago. Already, she can bring me a
picture book and read “whale,” “porpoise” and “squid” in a voice that reminds
me of sleigh bells. I know someday she will be a surgeon, or perhaps a poet.
In our darkest moments, art creates a shaft of light. There
is light in a poetry book by Joy Harjo, in a recording by Yo-Yo Ma and in a
collection of Monet’s paintings of snow. The rituals of spiritual life
will also illuminate our days. In my case, it is sun salutations, morning
prayers, meditation and readings from Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese Buddhist monk and
influential Zen master. Also, it’s the saying of grace and the moments when I
slow down and am present. Whatever our rituals, they allow us to hold on
through the darkness until the light returns.
Finally, we will always have the light of memory. When I
recall my grandmother’s face as she read to me from “Black Beauty” or
held my hand in church, I can calm down and feel happy. I feel the light on my
skin when I remember my mother at the wheel of her Oldsmobile, her black
doctor’s bag beside her. Driving home from a house call, she would tell me
stories from her life on a ranch in the Great Depression and during the Dust
Bowl.
Deep inside us are the memories of all the people we’ve ever
loved. A favorite teacher, a first boyfriend, a best friend from high school or
a kind aunt or uncle. And when I think of my people, I’m suffused with light
that reminds me that I have had such fine people in my life and that they are
still with me now and coming back to help me through hard times.
Every day I remind myself that all over the world most
people want peace. They want a safe place for their families, and they want to
be good and do good. The world is filled with helpers. It is only the great
darkness of this moment that can make it hard to see them.
No matter how dark the days, we can find light in our own
hearts, and we can be one another’s light. We can beam light out to everyone we
meet. We can let others know we are present for them, that we will try to
understand. We cannot stop all the destruction, but we can light candles for
one another.
Dec. 11, 2023, NTY Opinions
