Listening in the Solstice Dark
by Liz Moore, Executive Director
This Winter Solstice time brings me an inner urge to be slow. I’m listening to the wind blow in the tall, old pines and tamaracks around my little house, and I realize again and again that the music I love and the movies I find entertaining both take up so much space in my internal soundscape that sometimes I don’t feel myself. With just the sound of the wind, I can slow down internally and hear my own breath.
Would you like to join me in a breath? Can we both notice how our ribs and bellies expand and contract? Maybe that brings attention to the state of your shoulders as it does to mine, and you want to join me in lifting, clenching, and releasing your shoulders? Maybe we can notice where we are in contact with the earth under our feet or under our seat; we can notice the downward pull of gravity holding us to the ever-present support of the earth, rooted like trees. We notice our upward rising as well, the dignity of our spines and necks extending toward the stars just like the trees do.
A breath for our full length and dignity.
There’s so much in our dominant culture, driven by materialism (which is one of capitalism’s henchmen), that seeks to keep us in motion this time of year (and always) — swirling us into the meaningless motion of purchasing, purchasing, purchasing. Will it be right? Will it be enough? Will we ourselves meet with approval, will we ourselves be judged as lacking?
I certainly love a treat and I certainly love a present. But in the hubbub of “the holidaze” and the headlines — what else, or what more, can we listen for in the Solstice dark? Can we listen within?
Returning to our breath, can we breathe into our sides and notice our ribs again? Join me in noticing the width of our footprints on the earth, from left little toe to right little toe; the width of our hips, the way our chests can spread out and unfurl like a scroll, the width of our jaws and cheeks, the width of our peripheral vision. I feel for my internal inherent belonging, which exists in my full width before anyone else’s opinion comes into play. I feel for you at my side, arm in arm with shared purpose. Thousands of people in Spokane County and millions across the continent, millions more around the world in a shared movement for all people’s rights, for the earth, for collective liberation, a shared movement against fascism and authoritarianism.
A breath for our width and our connection.
A breath for our depth, for where we are in the arc of our own lives. We feel the fabric on our backs, and we feel the history behind us. Our own choices and growth have led us to this moment. Behind us are the people who have supported and taught us; behind that we can feel our political ancestors as well as blood ancestors, knowing we are not the first to long for the fullness of self-expression, self-determination, and liberation. We can extend our attention to the night ahead, to the months and years ahead. Here we are in between, in this exact moment.
A breath for the past, present, and future.
Let’s return to listen within. I place a hand on my belly or my chest, making contact with myself. What does my body know? What does my body know about self-expression? My body knows dancing in my kitchen while I cook. What does my body know about self-determination? My body knows what a NO feels like and what a YES feels like. What does my body know about liberation? My body knows I need safety, community where everyone can thrive, support, collective action, and meaning.
What matters most to you? What are the stars you will navigate by, tonight and in the months and years ahead? The more we know ourselves, the more we can move toward our longings and the more we can be in real connection with each other.
A breath to feel what matters most.
In our PJALS community, I feel a shared longing for meaningful and effective action together, a longing to make contributions with our time and energy that add up to something, that create a sense of belonging and fruitful action. I feel gratitude to be in connection with you.
In this long Solstice dark, let’s continue to breathe slowly together. In the midst of bright lights and busy-ness, we can turn toward the dark.
I’m moved to share a poem by Wendell Berry, farmer and poet:
To Know the Dark
To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.
I also offer it to you as a song to go with the quiet and the dark, set to music by Katie Hicks.
This long Solstice night and all nights, may each breath and each action bring us closer to a world where all are safe, warm, fed, free, and loved.
Warmly,
Liz