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December 20/21 Advent
On Sunday, we went for a bike ride — across Richmond Park, down in Hampton, along Kingston to the Thames, through Sheen Park and back in a loop along the north side, catching a glimpse of the water again at Brentford. It was a really great ride, the river shining, the bare trees like sculptures, the open fields green and bright.
Although the weather report predicted this would be our only window of sun for a few days, at the top of the hill in Richmond, the outlook was doubtful. A heavy, dark cloud hung low in the sky. As we climbed up, we passed a herd of cream-coloured young deer, gathered together on a bed of brown fern, sheltering under the trees. They looked like seagulls on a foreshore, a big flock of pale animal bodies. We reached the peak and it did start raining, but it was a light rain, and out to the west, over the river, we could see blue skies.
It is hard during these times to gain perspective. Yesterday, a problem rose up in my work, and I ended up missing a lot of sleep worrying about it. I kept trying to pull my body into the now, but my mind raced ahead for hours, planning. Of course, today, the problem mostly resolved itself.
It was the darkest day, but I felt full of life and calm — a kind of grace. I had breakfast with my husband, lunch with my whole family, watched a movie with my daughter, wrapped some presents, enjoyed everyone’s company. It rained all morning, but I did not mind. I was glad to be here.
When things do get heavy, and I can feel them pressing down on me, I have a core belief that they will turn toward the light and the cloud will lift. Call me a sometimes anxious optimist. The anxiety I was born with. The optimism I have cultivated for decades. For that faith in the light, I am really grateful.
