the long dark tea-time of the soul

And a happy Solstice to you all. My plans for The Longest Night include finally getting everything unpacked and ordered in my room, having a beer (Bridgeport India Pale Ale) and a long, hot bath. Because, goddamn. It's been a long month. I hate our manic schizo society, running us into the ground when we should be resting, making every opportunity for fun and laughter into a depressing social obligation. Tonight's the longest night, and I don't have the time or energy to make use of it, though I really need to. Between moving, being financially screwed, looking for a new job, keeping up with school, my spirit needs a little TLC.

And this is what solstice is about, that little sliver of light right when things seem darkest. I'm calling it the long dark tea-time of the soul [/Douglas Adams] because my worries are external, and therefore resolvable, and I tend to forget that. This is all metaphorical, of course; it's sunny as hell here, which might be contributing to my sense of malaise.

Maybe, after the job interviews, and the errands, and the cleaning and studying for tomorrow's exam, I'll get a chance to light a candle and pray this:

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .
I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .
When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . .
I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . .
I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .
I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .
I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . .
I am the heart contracted by joy. . .
the longest hair, white before the rest. . . .
I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow. . . .
I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .
I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . . .

a bit of Jane Kenyon for your holidays.