curls into herself
star and moon
ever the mimic
I yearn for internal
hearken to womb
the unafraid dark soul.
The Nurturing Dark
by Nan Lundeen
A dear friend of mine carries no burden of a fearful death.
“Whatever took care of me before I was born will take care of me after I die,” she says with a shrug.
Hers is the unafraid soul comfortable with a hard-won inner wisdom. She has read and searched and thought and came around to a life dedication. She teaches Montessori preschool at age seventy-six because she believes hope for our world lives in the hearts and minds of today’s four and five year olds.
What does she teach them?
-That they are made of stardust.
-That their birthday means they’ve traveled another circle around the sun.
-That Earth is our mother, and we must take care of her.
I imagine early humankind grew fearful at solstice time as hours of sunlight shortened. They knew how much life depends on the Sun, on Earth, on air and water. They didn’t think in terms of conquering nature. They were nature.
The cycles spun. The rhythms lulled. Time existed only in the sky.
What joy there must have been when just past solstice, sunlight moments lengthened again, promising more light for warmth and for plants—they felt the unbreakable rhythm, the return of the Sun.
It is written that when the angel announced the birth of Jesus, he first said, “Fear not.” A son was born. People found hope and starlight.
Winter Solstice is a time to meditate, to sit in the lap of darkness—enfolded, safe—the unafraid soul. My innermost self guides me there in the dark. She holds me, soothes me.
I place a small candle in my chalice. I place a bear in North, a pink crystal in South, a seashell in West and a tiny cut-glass bluebird in East.
Close your eyes. Breathe. All else falls away. Inside your deep dark soul dwells love.
Whatever took care of you before you were born, takes care of you now.