As I was writing my last post on feeling Bereft, the morning light streamed into the living room, casting various articles within my view in an unearthly gleam – the wooden dinosaur on the shelf, the crumbs on the end of the table, the glass on the shelving unit that stashed old tea cups.
(Let me just add here that we’re getting a better lens for Christmas so that we can do those morning light photos – and other things – better justice).
Snapping these pictures reminded me that I had been wanting to take some photos of the late afternoon, because there is something unique about winter light that evokes strong memories for me – poignant memories from childhood.
Deborah from Mannahatta Mamma commented on my Bereft post, suggesting that it must be the winterish blue light that contributes to my mood. (And she’s only saying that from memory because she’s in Abu Dhabi right now soaking in the rays – or hiding from them in the air conditioning).
But I’m not sure that’s the case with me (although I might sing a different tune, come mid-February).
I actually like winter light.
It makes me feel nostalgic.
Like there is something greater out there
It reminds me of growing up in upstate New York
coming outside in the evening in my shirt sleeves
the snow in small drifts at my feet
the crisp air tickling my nose
the sky purple behind the bare branches of the trees.
Sadness loses strength in the visceral beauty of winter light.
I got a bit of a shock this morning. My father sent me an e-mail containing a scanned letter he had found from my brother Mark, who died on January 3d, 1993.
I had never seen this letter before. It was written to my grandparents, maybe a week before his death, or not even. In it, he talks about his plans, he talks about missing me, he talks about setting his Christmas money aside for savings. It’s full of plans for a life to be lived – a precious epistle to have after all this time.
But … I find, somehow, that I almost don’t want it. No – it’s been nineteen years, and I find myself wanting to tuck this letter back down into the locked box that sits at the bottom of my heart – this locked box that is like the Arc of the Covenant – if you don’t touch it and don’t look into it, you won’t die.
(Huge breath). I am okay this season – I promise. I know I don’t sound it, but I really am. Oh, I suppose I would like to have a cleaner house. And more money in the bank. And … perhaps a more clearly-defined sense of purpose that will light a fire under my butt, but I’m okay.
The locked box in my heart might be blue
but there is warmth to be found in winter light.
Oh, what a mixed thing – to have that letter after so long. I have no idea how that would feel, but I want to give you a huge hug from 3000 miles away. (The sentence in between those photos is stunning and so is that last capture. xo.)
Thank you – I feel that hug all the way over here.
I want to leave a thoughtful, meaningful, poignant comment. But no words justify how much I want to sit with you, have a chai (or three, I’m addicted) and enjoy this winter light with you. Hugs, my friend.
We absolutely have to make that happen. News on Chicago?
Jennifer,
I am sending you love and hugs. Sometimes the distance between hope and the loss of hope is terrifyingly short. I have been in that space. I am sorry for anyone who has been there. I am sorry for your brother and the hole he has left.
I tweeted the sentence “Sometimes the distance between hope and the loss of hope is terrifyingly short.” Such wisdom – thank you for your encouragement (lil Rach). 🙂
You know, I really liked your post. Because I am glad there’s someone else out there nostalgic about childhood, about other and different times. I know some may find that “ungrateful” when they think how lucky we are to be living “the french dream” but….but but. It’s a post I was going to write about us, ” transplants”. In my case, I moved twice, de-rooted and rooted and de-rooted and trying to “root” again. Not easy, especially before Christmas when tradition time kicks in more than ever. But yes, it’s all good. Grateful for so much more than others.
Merry Christmas
Hi Nina, oh I do know! We moved 9 times in the first few years of our marriage, and some of those were international moves. Here’s to a peaceful, settled, rich holiday season!
Beautiful and wrenching. Love you !
Love you too Anna. Merry Christmas.
I look out my office window every evening at dusk to see the most beautiful pinkish-purplish hue bathing all of the city buildings in the warmest glow. My office has a view of the Chrysler building and the reflection of the light on the steel make the yellow office lights twinkle. It’s glorious.
Merry Christmas to you and your family.
I can totally picture it Jackie! I used to work in midtown. This makes me nostalgic now. 🙂 Merry Christmas.
Guess that is where the expression ‘mood lighting’ came to be. Living in FL with the sunshine and the blue skies, dark gloomy days where I can light candles and play soft music are my fav … reflective, melancholy … often times good for the soul xxx
Much love to you this holiday season xxxx
Nicole – I left you a comment in the post I hadn’t seen before. I hope you get it. Much love to you and the girls this holiday.
Beautiful pictures and words.
Thank you dear Vikki.
b e a t i f u l
This moved me completely.
thank you for sharing your gorgeous photos and heartfelt words. X
Thank you. I’m very touched by your visit and your comment.
I had missed this one the first time around… but so relate to the winter light.
And the letter…. I’m so sorry. I never knew about your brother. But in some way I do know your pain and all about the little blue box in the bottom of your heart. I lost my uncle, who became a surrogate father when I lived in Hawaii, the same way 8 years ago. It is a raw kind of loss like no other because you can never reconcile it… accept it… you have to do just that… tuck in away in a box. And when you have to open that box, however briefly, to stash another thought or memory… the pain roars out.
But then… there is that sunbeam.
Yes, my brother’s death happened about 3 years after college when I had already lost touch with almost everyone. You get it – I can see that you do. But I love what you wrote about the sunbeam. There is always a sunbeam.