In Certain Light
At my house, certain things must happen when darkness falls:
Counting the combed heads of our twelve laying hens and shutting them securely in their coop for the night, because [fox, raccoon, weasel, really big owl that lives in the grove...].
Calling (and sometimes finding and carrying in) our four cats and shutting the pet door behind them, because [coyote, owl, wayward neighbors with guns...]
Closing the garage door because [cold, vermin, possible petty theft]
These requirements are easily met most of the year, especially in the delicious evenings of late summer, when chores are leisurely, in shirtsleeves and long, warm light. These same activities are not nearly as pleasant in mid-December, when going outside requires layers and our household is still scrambling (since Daylight Savings) to adjust to the sun setting before the workday is done.
At least three days a week, I glance up from my computer’s screen to see shadows already obscuring the back pasture, my chickens milling warily in their yard, waiting for me to scatter their evening meal (dried fly larvae) before they trundle up their coop ramp to perch for the night. Things that were friendly and familiar just minutes before—cobwebs in the corner, the inky shadow pooling behind the coop door—grow suddenly threatening, requiring caution, a second look.
The cats, too, seem to switch on different senses for navigating in the dying light, pausing every few steps to comb the air with the tiny hairs of their ears, swiveling, their whiskers live antenna. I know they would prefer to stay out, predatory and nocturnal, but cautionary tales from our neighbors forbid it.
I find myself attuning to the precious light of these short days, too, a cautionary tale of another kind. There is only so much—we have only so much—though we often plan and act and worry and forget as though the light—life itself—is boundless. And when it reveals itself as not finite, really, but finely textured and ever-changing, I catch myself wondering how I fell so far away from tender appreciation.
And so this is my practice: to notice the light and to move within it like a guest, or maybe family from out of town, not tethered tightly to my own routines or expectations, because I am not the center of this universe. I’m here to reflect and amplify and scatter dried flies. I wish this for you, too, in this season of the winter solstice, of advent, of the festival of lights. Peace. Salaam. Shalom.