With all constancy, light bears down on us; but in winter it's low, almost hidden - the destiny of the delicate angle we face with the universe. This year, as we reach the apex of that arc, the full and glorious moon will slip like a frightened lover beneath the shadow of the earth, and the night owls will pause in silence as if to wonder if that light will, in fact, return to us.
We know ahead of time that this light will be like no other - a blackened moon on the blackest night of the year, a crown of darkness upon the sun's own child. When we weep, this is the light that fills us. When we are alone, this is the light we reach out to. But when we are lost, we get distracted. Like a moth, we follow whatever lights our way. The all-powerful sun persists, first here, then there, all possibilities, all hopes illuminated. Even at night, as the rumbling of the city continues, we search out every moon ray that seems to know which path to take.
For this one night, for this one instant, all light will be gone from us. The shapes, the shadows, the incessant need to illuminate will disappear. We will be left on a spinning ball of rock and water, weaving in an arc around a ball of fire, hidden even from it's own reflection by our own clumsy destiny. A night of smoke, and dance, and mirrors.
Pilgrims in the dark, we celebrate.
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