Turning Toward the LIght

The longest night of the year has come and gone. Now the nights are getting shorter and the days longer. Incrementally, it's true, but steadily.

As always, I wrote my deepest fear on a piece of paper, burned it and blew it into the sky last night. Given all that's happened lately, you might think my deepest fear is that I will lose my place in my children's lives or that my parents will die. It is not. My deepest fear is much broader: it is that I will let fear stop me from living as I should.

Although I'm doing much better in recent days, my fear of losing the kids' love and loyalty tempts me to be selfish, to close my heart and mind. Giving into that temptation would hurt my children and, ultimately, me.

Fear for my parents tempts me to ignore realities, to pretend everything is the same as it's always been and that it always will be. Doing that cheats me of the chance to help them in all possible ways through this transition.

In these terrible economic times, I am afraid I won't be able to continue making a living as a writer. I work longer and longer hours at paying jobs and spend less and less time on my personal writing, reasoning that I can't afford to waste time and no one is publishing right now, anyway. It's certainly true that publishing is in a dire state, but it's not impossible unless I make it so by giving up on myself.

So I wrote my fear of fear in permanent marker and set it ablaze in a 9-inch metal pie pan. The letters were still visible after the paper burned, but the force of my breath scattered them, leaving no permanent mark on the starry sky over Independence, Missouri.

Afterward, I lit candles and watched their flames flicker. No cursing the darkness this year. I'm going to light the candles and get to work, with an open heart, an open mind, and love. Always with love.

My Solstice prayer for you all:

May only good come to you.
May only good come from you.
May you live in the Light of Love.