Dear friend,
Winter has never been my favorite season, but since relocating to Pennsylvania with its sharp edge of cold to replace the Pacific Northwest’s milder grey winters, it has been harder for my heart, mind and body than ever before. A dear friend recently named how becoming a mother has made winter harder for her. Having more indoor hours while caring for kids in those smaller spaces adds to the hard of the darkness and the cold, and I’m feeling that too. I expected to feel the weight of winter more last year, with all the limitations of caring for a newborn, but I didn’t. Looking back, I think I was in survival mode, only able to be present with what was in front of me: all the spit-up and sickness and meals & laundry for our family of five. I simply didn’t have the space to feel winter’s typical impact then.
But this year, I already feel it. Despite this week holding highs in the upper 70s or low 80s in Pennsylvania, the cold days we had a few weeks ago made my body feel small and full of dread for winter. I know winter is coming. Having three mobile, busy kids in a two-bedroom house is already feeling extra tricky heading into these cold months. I can feel myself already beginning to brace for what is ahead of us.
On Saturday, November 2, I had the opportunity to attend a local mini-retreat, led by a spiritual director that was new to me, on the idea of Light coming into the Darkness. It felt especially meaningful to set aside that morning to reflect, right before Daylight Savings’ Time and an election week. I was feeling pretty fragile and weary coming into the time, after a particularly heavy string of days.
For our first practice, we’d been sent out outside, to quiet our minds and find a simple phrase to pray. I held my mug in one hand, looking out over a mostly dried-up pond, feeling like it was a good metaphor for how so many things in my life feel at the moment. I named one heavy thing after another to the Lord, before landing on the phrase, “hold me close to your chest” as my prayer. I’ve been spending a lot of time with the picture of Jesus as our shepherd lately. I deeply appreciated the comfort from the image of being held the way Isaiah 40:11 speaks of, Jesus holding the lambs close to his heart. It felt like a gift to acknowledge how fragile I felt and turn that truth into a prayer and a posture of being held.
We headed back inside and had the opportunity to playfully paint as a prayer practice, both collectively and individually. (I especially enjoyed my first time using an acorn cap and a dead marigold as a paintbrush.) But first, we received the gift of a few readings and images from the Hubble Space telescope. I’ve stopped to marvel at images from space before, but there was something that felt especially precious about seeing them while holding onto the phrase, “even the darkness is not dark to you” from Psalm 139: 12. There is such paradox in the night sky. From my perspective it usually appears dark and void, while also containing, unseen to my eye, beauty and mystery, radiant light and color, all hidden in the darkness. I keep coming back to these incredible images, (if you have a minute, I invite you to look at them through this lens; below is one of my favorites, the Lagoon Nebula) when my mind begins to head down an anxious path. I want to remember that even what may look bleak and cold and empty to me could also hold beauty and goodness.
Our fall in Pennsylvania has been an especially warm and dry one, breaking records for no rainfall and bringing burn bans into place. We hear our fair share of sirens from emergency vehicles and from the local fire house as we live on a busy road, but it feels like there have been more than usual with this dry spell. One recent siren went off while we were outside, and immediately Clover lay her head onto my chest. It was the first one than seemed to alarm her, which made sense since they’re not usually as loud from inside our house. I covered her exposed ear with my hand and held her until it was over. She stayed quiet and calm, safe in my arms.
The sirens continue daily, and there have been times when my 7 year old son has rushed to cover her ears for her, or I’ve had to hurry over to scoop her up. But with each and every siren, she’s coming close for comfort. Sometimes she cries with the shock of the alarming sound, but most times she just lays her head against me. Every time, she’s being held safe.
It has been precious to add this image of Clover laying her head on me, to my own prayer of “hold me close to your chest.” While the sirens are difficult for me to hear again and again, as they raise my own stress level, it has been a gift to have them accompanied by this invitation to come and be held. Come close. Be held. I am here with you.
When I am feeling anxiety begin to well up within me, I am imagining that anxiety like a siren going off, and with it, the invitation to be held until it passes. Hold me close to your chest.
I recently read John O’Donohue’s blessing “For One Who Is Exhausted”(from his book, To Bless The Space Between Us) again, and it felt like such a gift to be invited to:
“Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through.”
One place I’m taking refuge in is the small act of making these chocolate muffins, ever since my friend Jess gave me the recipe a few months ago. I love seeing the handfuls of spinach & almond flour transform into these muffins that my family devours within hours of them coming out of the oven. It also feels a little ironic to me that I can’t double the recipe, because I have to make it in my food processor, and it literally wouldn’t hold a double batch of batter.
But I’m seeing it as an act of presence to make something good for my family that is also fleeting. These are nutrient dense, while also being a truly delicious, gluten free chocolate muffin. Baking has been a gift for me in this season, as so much of the work I’m doing feels like it has little to show for it at the end of the day. In this season of important, but often unseen labor, I’m grateful for the way I can find refuge in something as simple as making muffins. I can feel grounded, with the smell of chocolate baking, the sweet taste of the first warm bite, the gift of sharing the experience with those I love around the table.
But I also know the importance of slowing down and savoring the gifts in front of me, especially in the midst of a hard season. I know how much intentionality it takes to not rehearse the stories of scarcity and the feeling of being left alone that come when winter (whether a metaphorical winter or a real one) is here. It can take so much courage to posture myself to receive goodness, to replace those stories with the story of love right in front of me.
Being held, finding refuge in my senses, and getting to love the people in front of me is no small thing. Am I making too much of muffins? Maybe. But perhaps it isn’t too much to call chocolate muffins a small miracle after all.
Dear friend, thank you for being with me. I'd truly love to hear from you. Feel free to just hit "reply" to this email. I read and savor every email that comes my way, even if I don’t always have the space to respond (which is often these days, but I’m trying!) I’d be so glad to know what small miracles you’re taking refuge in, how you feel about winter approaching or if my words brought up anything to the surface of your heart today.
Warmly,
Alison
PS. I’m so glad to write you this letter for free. It is a joy to do so. It is such a gift for you to be here, and I don’t need more thanks than that. But if you find my words helpful and would like to support me even more, here are a few ways to do so:
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