It’s forty-five degrees and sunny on this Winter’s Solstice. Jeez-louise! Where is my winter?
So, I wrote the above nearly eight hours ago, before working my last long night before my real vacation begins, and now it seems silly. Really, though, we are facing a Christmas without snow, and I don’t actually remember ever doing that before, in my whole life. What I did, in protest of the fact that I had to work on what already felt like vacation, was sit on the couch all day and read the entirety of Graham Green’s The End of the Affair. Because I do what I want.
It is a good sign that the longest night of the year fell on my last night before vacation, because it certainly felt that way tonight. I’m short on patience, and many of the more trustworthy and less-boistrous teens are off campus, which means that only the rowdy remain. It was a night of aural overstimulation and much contemplation over the question of why they must be so loud. That said, it was a fun night at work. We had an amazing couple of historians/musicians out to talk about oldy-timey stuff, and they brought lots of cool artifacts to show off. It was just a fun night that left me unable to listen to music afterward, because of how loud the teens had to be afterwards. I don’t know why that happens to me, but it happens frequently. I just need silence to get the quiet back in my soul.
My inner Siberian is back. I crave the big snow and deep freeze, and the sound crushed crystal underfoot. I know I write that all the time, but it seems that winter is taking a long time to get real. At least the roads are good.
I’m going to write a Solstice poem, do a snow dance, and get to bed.
The Longest Night
The longest night gets rough-cut and rowdy.
Much can be done, much mischief accomplished, on the darkest day.
It is, or should be, a day of silent dark, and a day to think on infinities.
It might be a day to wonder on why we yearn for some infinite, and a day to realize that the light will return, at first in minutes and then in hours, and that after the unwinding of this season of cold and rest, yes, the light will come pushing back. At first the pain will go to the pupils, but then the warmth will enter the bones, like a small sweetness after the long dark sleep. And maybe there is snow to come.
Now officially off for a bit of Christmas break. I have a lot to do in the next few days, to pull off this magic mama/Santa thing I’ve promoted. Happy late, late Sunday, poem-peeps.