“. . . Where suddenly, readying toward nightfall,
The sumac's candelabrum darkly flames.
And I speak to you now with the land's voice,
It is the cold, wild land that says to you
A knowledge glimmers in the sleep of things:
The old hills hunch before the north wind blows.”

~Excerpt from “A Spell before Winter,” Howard Nemerov

It was dark when I woke, and remembered. It’s winter solstice. And the sun rose over the meadow in the east above the Charles River, and I walked. First day of winter. Of course, I feel as though I’ve been walking in winter for weeks. The landscape iced, frosted, creaking, cracking. Charlie barked when I boot-skated over the wetlands. He doesn’t want me to be in a world where I go without him. He’s nervous of the ice today, it’s noisy. But I know it’s safe and I cannot resist windows into the world of what grew here in the spring through the summer. This water is only knee deep. But Charlie wants me to return, and I do. I read the ice. Here is written, a fountain pen spilling lines of white ink on the grey surface. Yes, it’s a busy day ahead, but I take my time, wandering along in a reverie in this Sunday sanctuary. I have time to write my weekly Aim for Astonishing e-mail to my list about writing about the spirit of light. And then, the preparations begin full tilt for the guests. I stay in a good mood, I am not stressed. There is much to do, and there is time. The house is quiet, only me for the moment. I like to take the cut glass candy dish out of my hutch, the one I have that was my mother’s and she would let me fill it with nuts for company. There is no polishing silver in my house as there was in her’s, the day before, a job we enjoyed doing for her. I’m grateful for these reminders: the Waterford punch cups she gave me, I put them out for egg nog. And I feel as I did on the ice of the wetlands, a kind of reverence, making this party for my aunts and uncles, sisters and brothers, nephews and nieces and mother-in-law and my cousins and my grand nieces and nephews. To be the one these past few years, taking over this party from my cousins, making sure it happens. As it did when my mother did it, when my aunt did it, when their parents did it. There are so many absences, people I wish were here today, as I pass the plate of cheese puffs, hot from the oven, and so many present, and over these decades, bonds hold. How will this party be different next year, I don’t know, but it will. And so, I know how to appreciate it just as it is this year. The still point.