Up here now in New Hampshire the day ends at 5pm. With a darkness that lengthens the night and puts frost on everything when the Sun returns at dawn. The leaves have fallen except for the oak and beech trees. The dry yellow grasses and weeds are dressed in tiny crystals of of frozen water that melt with the warmth and light.
All these familiar New England things are the gate keepers to the long nights and wintery days. The air fills with the scent of snow and the mountains in the notch are covered in whitness. Rime ice forms with the wind on tree branches…. The world drops into a monochromatic slumber of plans for the Spring. Archaic dreams that seep up from the subconscious and haunt the idleness on cold nights. The mind wrestling with regrets and unfinished novels to be written.
Or…. the renewed passion to start projects and finish that pile of books on the night stand. Wrapped in woolen fabrics that insulate the chill while sipping warm beverages. Cloistered in the cozy places with a view framing the day light passing.
We enter the dark. The deep long shadows of a Sun passing far south on it’s annual journey. The incremental ticking of time in ratios of light and dark. That alter the cadences of our minds and slows our bodies. Slipping into the in-between that ceremonially has been the place where seeds of ideas are fed the fears of inaction and uncertainty along with inflated potentials to become something…. anything…. in an effort to keep faith in the returning Sun and not be devoured by the night.