The darkest part of night is always right before dawn.
My plan was to leave Orange County, travel to Joshua Tree, and camp for the New Year. Towering peaks of mental barriers finally plant me under my avocado tree, beach-side, swimming in to-do’s, shoulds, and waters of limitation.
What are you doing Alexander? Why are you still at home?
I’ve been here before. I sit quiet and feel the real discomfort I’m dodging with busy tactics of avoidance. A work friend of seven years died on Christmas Eve and I was five days into it. I read about it on Facebook.
Down the rabbit hole I go and learn she received an ALS diagnosis this year and was dead by Christmas.
What did we do before the digital age with information so readily available?
I know a path to the light.
I slither mindfully from Orange County, solo, to hike, offfer gratitude, meditate, listen, reflect, integrate, be, write, cry, laugh, and embrace the dazzling darkness in my grief and loss.
From my tent early this morning bundled cozy in winter gear I emerge into the cold and gaze upon the moon lit desert.
My Stanley growler holds warm coffee and I begin again. The stillness of early morning’s my sacred symphony. In the Desert, under expansive sky, it magnifies.
“In the wee small hours of the morning, when the world is fast asleep,” sings from the turn table of my mind.
The moon sets and I’m in the dark.
I giggle. I know a path to the light right in the heart of darkness.
Thank you! I’m home. In my happy place, and aware that soon, very soon, the sun will light my New Year and day.
If pain and darkness always teach me the most, what prevents me from playfully turning towards them with a welcome and warm embrace?
”Oh, Hey, I know you, let’s do this dance!”