Stuck in the Dark

This fall, my wife Martha and I spent a month living in an apartment in Riverdale, a neighborhood in the North Bronx, New York, a few miles north of Washington Heights, where our younger son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter live. We tried out the possibility of moving to New York City to be closer to them. We learned many things: where the best grocery stores on the north end of Broadway are, which Riverdale subway stations have elevators, which routes to our granddaughter’s school for pickups are fastest and have the least stairs, how to get from a densely-populated area to old-growth forest without a car in fifteen minutes, the ways that Eastern deciduous forests feel and look different from Pacific Northwest forests dominated by huge conifers. We also learned that we’re not ready to move anywhere just yet. For now, we are staying in the home, too big for two people, where we raised our kids. We’re surrounded by everything we’ve accumulated, materially and energetically, over the last 34 years.

I’m in a period of transition, of limbo, logistically and creatively. Several writing projects are almost, but not quite, completed. Less of my time goes to volunteer tree advocacy work, more to writing. Some family issues can’t yet be resolved, and the path to resolving them isn’t clear.

Astrologically, I have six planets in fixed signs and Aries rising. Limbo is not a state I like much. I want to solve problems, make decisions, move forward. Four weeks ago, my Aries energy moved me forward a little too quickly. I tangled my foot in a basket I had left on the floor, tripped, and fractured three toes on my left foot. As I fell, I knocked the top rib on my left side out of whack. So until a recent osteopathic adjustment, I was in limbo, out of alignment, forced to stop and sit down. After experiencing five surgeries in the last four and a half years, I was in a state, first of disbelief, then despondence.

My transient inconvenience pales in comparison to the experiences of undocumented people, government workers, and the many targets of Trump’s revenge tour. I offer it as a metaphor. Our country is currently in limbo—we don’t know what will happen next, and it looks bad—and out of alignment with justice, institutional and economic stability, our allies, and the values of liberal democracy. It’s easy for us to feel stuck in the dark.

Winter Solstice is a still point in the darkness. The cosmos holds its breath. A turning point: here in the Northern Hemisphere, the Solstice marks the most extreme moment of the earth’s tilt away from the sun. Afterward, from our perspective on Earth, the sun begins to rise and set further north each day. Eventually, days become longer, warmer, clearer, drier.

Are we at a turning point nationally? I think so, and I’m not alone. Trump is weaker—physically, cognitively, politically—than he’s ever been. The grassroots resistance that began last winter has finally moved national Democrats and even a handful of Republicans to defy authoritarianism and the destruction of our democracy. Though the fascists who hold Trump up continue to break institutions, cruelly harm and murder people all over the globe, and steal our money and resources, our fight is not in vain. It’s having a big, national impact. Our situation would be so much worse if we were not standing up.

We still have to get through the dark season, the winter, the continued reign of Trumpism over our daily lives. But the light returns. We are getting stronger, and they are getting weaker.

Take a moment this Solstice to reflect, connect, tell stories. Take stock and take heart. Our fight is far from over. We can’t build back all that has been demolished or bring those who have died back to life. We can’t undo all the harm. But we can heal—and build a society that’s better than the one the fascists are destroying. Like the nurse logs in our old-growth forests, the death of the old ways can nourish new growth. We are already putting down roots strong enough to hold us up through winter winds.