Volume 4, No. 35: The Season of Light

On welcoming the darkness home

Dec 04, 2024

Greetings, book and treat people. It’s been a little while. Thank you for being here! Today’s newsletter is a celebration of my favorite season. Before we get into it, I want to express again my appreciation for all of you as I’ve switched into this monthly-ish newsletter format. The spaciousness has meant everything to me. I’ll be sending out at least one Best Books of the Year list before the end of the year (and possibly several).

I’m still not exactly sure what form this newsletter will take next year, and I probably won’t know until January, so it will be a surprise for all of us. I do know I’m very excited about my 40 Before 40 Reading Project, so you can expect to hear more about that (and if you’d like to treat me to a book, you can check out my 40 By 40 wishlist).

For now, let’s welcome in the Season of Light.

The golden sun rising behind dark hills in front of a snowy field.

It’s December now, also known as the Season of Light. December is my favorite month of the year. It’s my most sacred season. I know the holidays are hard for a lot of people, and I know this time of year comes with a lot of unreasonable demands. I know the cold and the dark don’t welcome everyone the way they welcome me.

I’m not here to sell you anything. I’m not here to convince you that December is indeed the best month, or to tell you not to be sad, or to explain how to “do December right” or any other nonsense. I’m not here to encourage you to throw up some lights and pretend the world is okay, that you’re okay, that we can celebrate our way out of this catastrophe, and the next, and the next.

There’s this line from a Pablo Neruda poem that I have loved since I was a teenager, and is often in my mind: “I didn’t come to solve anything. / I came here to sing / and for you to sing with me.”

It always makes me think of these lines by Bertolt Brecht:

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“In the dark times
Will there also be singing?
Yes, there will also be singing.
About the dark times.”

I am not here, on this earth, to turn away from darkness, to turn away from the world. I am here to solve what I can, or, at least, to contribute to the messy web of salves and solutions. There are many ways to read the Neruda lines, but for me they have always been about nowness, about gathering in, about the desire that drives our desire to heal what’s hurt and fix what’s broken—being together. We’re trying to make a new world for each other.

December, for me, is about singing. It is about slowness. I love the way the golden light saturates the horizon. I love the way the trees show themselves, finally, vulnerable and full of grace. I love the long dark afternoons and how they tumble into evening, how the evenings stretch close and hold me. I love the short days, their insistence on light. I love these things with my body. I come alive in December even as I slow down. I see more clearly now than during any other time of year. The darkness is sweeter, and so is the sunshine. The light concentrates, deepens. I take long breaths.

I am here to sing—despite, inside, with, against, alongside. I am here to sing even though I am also sad and sometimes grumpy. I am here to sing even though I am also scared, and stressed about work, and overwhelmed. I am here to sing even though my days are not perfect, and sometimes I am lonely, and sometimes I have meltdowns. The things I hold sacred do not lose their sacredness because I’m tired or sick or worrying over a deadline. They don’t lose their sacredness even as the horrors of the world rise and rise and rise. Every December I get to live through is another gentle lesson in inviting the sacred in: the mundane, tarnished, weary, muddled, beautiful sacred.

I am here to sing, and maybe you’d like to sing with me for a breath or for a sunset, for the length of a flicker of candlelight in the window. If you need or want them today, here are some of my December songs:

I welcome the darkness.

View of a snowy field before sunrise. The snow is deep blue. There’s a line of gold on the horizon that turns slowly into pale, then deep, dark blue.

I gather the light.

A table decorated with a red runner, jars of winterberry and greenery, and many lit candles.

I watch the sunrise on as many December days as I can.

The small golden sun just peeking out from behind a line of dark hills in front of a snowy field. The sky is a clear, pale blue.

View of a brilliant display of dramatic pink, blue, purple, and orange clouds above a line of trees along a snowy field.

I fill my house with candles.

A table decorated with a red runner, jars of winterberry and greenery, and a tall white advent calendar. Behind the table, a spiral staircase strewn with twinkly lights.

View through an opening. from my kitchen into my dining room. The countertop is decorated with lit candles and jars of winterberry; wooden snowflakes and dried orange slices hang from the ceiling beam; the windows are lined with twinkly lights.

Several lit candles and jars of winterberry and greenery on top of a bookshelf.

I fill my days with rituals.

A small card with silver trees and the number 1 leans against an advent candleholder with one lit candle. There’s a mug of tea on the table and a large jar of winterberry.

A lit up Christmas tree in my dark living room next to several candles on a bookshelf.

A few of my most cherished December rituals: slow breakfasts with candles and my beloved advent cards from Anna Brones; rereading Circe; reading The Shortest Day and The Longest Night (both picture books) on the Solstice; getting up before sunrise and lighting candles; sitting by the Christmas in the dark just before I go to bed.

I watch the sunset on as many December days as I can.

The sun setting into a bank of clouds on a snowy ridgetop.

I gather the light.

A row of lit candles on a windowsill at dusk; the twinkly lights from around my house are reflected in the window.

I welcome the darkness.

The dark silhouette of a tree in a snowy field, against a deep blue sky before sunrise. There’s a line of gold on the horizon.

I’m wishing you all a slow and beautiful Season of Light.

Jules Torti

Dec 8

I feel like we've been sunset-less here in Lion's Head, Ontario for the last month! The clouds have been big-bellied with snow (or the threat of). However, I find that I am more productive than ever as I'm not pawing at the windows to get outside (like in the summer months). I'm still outside as much as possible but it's easier to be inside at 4:30pm when it's ink black outside. I'm sure you've read My Year of Living Danishly by Helen Russell. I loved her embrace of the dark and light (and the Lego, Danishes and hygge in between!). Looking forward to your annual book round-up, Laura!

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