As the Winter Solstice draws near, the long, shadowy days remind us that darkness often precedes light. This cyclical transition is particularly profound for those of us who navigate the pivotal moments of our lives through the art of writing. Over the years, I have met countless writers, and a recurring theme stands out: we come together in the warm embrace of the writing circle, seeking solace and clarity.
In this sacred space, we strive to unburden ourselves of the stories that weigh heavily on our hearts—narratives we not only yearn to express but must articulate to cultivate a healthier, more vibrant existence. Each is a flicker of light that helps illuminate our paths, guiding us toward deeper understanding and connection.
For me, that journey began with writing about John. We faced terrible adversity as a young couple with two small children. The cancer shattered my naïve dreams of a happily ever after. I emerged on the other side with two survival tools: my writing and my faith.
Now I write about the challenges that come with the winter of my life. Staying healthy in mind and body. Confronting with emotional intelligence people and systems bent on destroying my life or the lives of those I love. Being grounded in optimism, hope, and faith. Coping with the messiness of unrealized expectations.
Our life stories prompt us to honor the defining moments. These moments have shaped us, revealing who we were and who we have become.
No “genius” is required, only the commitment to put pen to page, and the belief that our story lights the path forward.
The length and the severity of our “winters” are often rooted in our writing lives. I was the girl lost in a book on a quiet winter day, dreaming of adventure and romance. Over the years, I realized the importance of staying grounded in the present. I also learned to accept loneliness. Writing made these lessons clearer and a burden lifted.
When you embark on the writing life, you hold close a memory, that moment in time that reconnects you with who you are. You remember the feel of his hand in yours. You remember turning the pages of a treasured book of photographs and poems he created as a special gift for you.
You come into the moment with awareness of that first Christmas alone. You remember waking up as dawn approached and you stepped outside, a sliver of moon in a silver sky. This is the day you want to write—to capture this moment before it slips away like a wisp of wind.
And so begins the recovery and the renewal.
As the Winter Solstice arrives, I invite you to enter the “darkness.” Welcome the gift it offers of the life unexpected and the life examined.
