The Sound of Time

Solar Years, Lunar Months, and Spatial Souls

Under the moon shine, we sail together, knitting stories into a net. In the long night, we hold corners of the net, waiting for the harmonics to fall together into serenade. Under velvet sky, we tuck the net in a sacred place, so no one fishes alone for song. Song belongs to no one and everyone, and is revealed truly through our cosmic belonging. 

This time permeates. The scents and sounds sink deeper behind closed windows and layered jackets. There is a lingering of both heat and cold, holding tight to our bodies as we move between places – our spatial history carried forward. These trees bare speak the solstice; after letting go, their negative space sharpens their form, gesturing of this crisp cold. Yet through my window, amidst this hiss of steam heat and hum of wool warmth, I hear balance. Through these gatherings, I hear my solitude most clearly.

Altars hold space for our falters, reminding us we can catch ourselves and that wisdom is found in this return to presence. In this season of giving with heart and receiving with grace, space opens for us to hold absolution with subtlety. On a walk to catch some sun, forgotten gloves remind me that numb fingers lack the nimble touch – lack the gift of holding hands that talk to each other of the ineffable. So too does a numb heart ask to restart, heard more clear in this silence of cheer. Falling into the darkest days, we hold balance in resonance, recognizing that where there is yang, there is also equally yin, if it we only choose to see. Steering towards holiday lights and snowfall’s silence, I hum to my tea, and whistle to the wind. As this tree let's go one last stubborn leaf, no grief, I feel time permeate again.

Dark days give us deep nights. Time without light does more than just fright, it pulls us towards the invisible. The smell of soup. The touch of dry air. The hiss and whirr of warmth through these old pipes. The taste of cinnamon and spice, heavy, to brighten winter’s quiet. Time stretches into darkness, reminding me both of the timeless and time apart from the world. The freedom of the midnight hour, away from obligation and expectation – just freed space into which I can expand. In this midnight of year, the dark is a gift. A blanket wrapped tight, has a lovely warmth with which no summer’s heat can compete.

I don’t see myself reflected, but I hear it. I hear these words written now in winter’s stillness, and too my heart’s whisper of spring. May this new year bring you a horn of plenty. Thank you dear readers for the warmth and gift of your attention.