We just experienced the shortest day of the year. So much darkness, so easy to feel despair. The good news, of course, is that on Winter Solstice the sun is reborn and starts a new cycle of life. As the days grow longer, bringing with them more and more light, I can’t help but think I’ll start to feel more hopeful. A new chapter is opening, granting us all a shot at growth and transformation. Just as the days will grow longer, warmer and brighter until the sun is strong enough to return life to everything in nature, we human beings can look forward to months full of inspiration and potential. As the light returns, so will we.

At least that’s the idea.

Light is, obviously, important to us all. For me it holds special meaning. My nickname is “Glo” and as a photographer I “paint with light.” Since Eddie’s illness and death I have been feeling my way through the darkness, looking for light wherever I can find it. There have been flashes of it, certainly, and I’m grateful for those. But with grief, the darkness can feel scary and overwhelming. Oddly, that darkness can also feel like being wrapped in a warm, soft, well-loved blanket. 

When I do venture out from underneath it, one of the ways I look for light is with children, especially my own grandchildren. I was with them last week, and I made pictures. I think the images can be read as both light and dark. 

Last year I read Mary Pipher’s memoir “A Life in Light: Meditations on Impermanence.” She is a woman who has experienced much darkness throughout her life but has always been compelled to find the light. Recently a dear friend reminded me of the essay Pipher wrote for the NYT a year ago when the book first came out. In it she talks about different kinds of light, particularly the light of memory:

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.

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.

So while we look forward to the increasing light from the reborn sun, it's possible to also to find light in our own hearts. Pipher believes that light can come from the memories of those we've lost. I love that idea.

My Blog

darkness and light

12/22/2024


We just experienced the shortest day of the year. So much darkness, so easy to feel despair. The good news, of course, is that on Winter Solstice the sun is reborn and starts a new cycle of life. As the days grow longer, bringing with them more and more light, I can’t help but think I’ll start to feel more hopeful. A new chapter is opening, granting us all a shot at growth and transformation. Just as the days will grow longer, warmer and brighter until the sun is strong enough to return life to everything in nature, we human beings can look forward to months full of inspiration and potential. As the light returns, so will we.

At least that’s the idea.

Light is, obviously, important to us all. For me it holds special meaning. My nickname is “Glo” and as a photographer I “paint with light.” Since Eddie’s illness and death I have been feeling my way through the darkness, looking for light wherever I can find it. There have been flashes of it, certainly, and I’m grateful for those. But with grief, the darkness can feel scary and overwhelming. Oddly, that darkness can also feel like being wrapped in a warm, soft, well-loved blanket. 

When I do venture out from underneath it, one of the ways I look for light is with children, especially my own grandchildren. I was with them last week, and I made pictures. I think the images can be read as both light and dark. 

Last year I read Mary Pipher’s memoir “A Life in Light: Meditations on Impermanence.” She is a woman who has experienced much darkness throughout her life but has always been compelled to find the light. Recently a dear friend reminded me of the essay Pipher wrote for the NYT a year ago when the book first came out. In it she talks about different kinds of light, particularly the light of memory:

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.

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.

So while we look forward to the increasing light from the reborn sun, it's possible to also to find light in our own hearts. Pipher believes that light can come from the memories of those we've lost. I love that idea.