the art of holding

 December. is a cold greeting-a hazy handshake under the twinkle of falling snow. It is hot breath in cold air, crystallised shapes spinning everywhere-

and you, there-

standing beneath the low light of night wondering: How did I end up here? At the end of the year.

Or maybe you are aware- and the lamp light's glare makes a home you know, with a voice that whispers: "it's not dead, nor sleeping. Your heart lives!" 

And in return you say:

"I let the sands of time slip through my hands.

Eternity never waits!

The earth and I are a garden flowering for the Gods.

Snow falls and covers our names:

New.

I tell you: the earth is our dream1

Shaped by scenes of half-prayers, gestures and motion.

Revive your language of devotion and carry on!

Even after, carry on.

Even still.

Silver tongues line the world with gold andg I hold

no defense against

the chill.

(Winter's secret stays untold beneath the hill)

Dig.

And now, in the final month of the year...I can't help but think of holding. The trick is, that holding something entirely- holding it's unfolding into completion- is what changes it. The tension of difficult emotion , once fully felt, heard, seen and understood, can exhale. Can move. So the impulse around it changes with the holding. Alive things never turn out the wy they begin. This is true too, for ideas-

What begins as a seed becomes a garden in a series of holding tension into exhale to become 'right action.'

Andrew Wyeth said: "I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape- the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show."

We first have to hold it, and notice and we ourselves grow in the holding. We grow to hold big enough to continue holding what it becomes. Like the gestating belly of a mother who will give birth. We hold it all, like a story: We must hold the conditions to make the beginning, hold the rising action, the collapse, the exhale of what it becomes...Like the tension of water gathering into a cloud- holding- holding in the chilled air. Holding into form and completion so the cloud breaks in relief- and millions of crystallised flakes form and fall beautifully from it. The very same way the impulse that first arrives with pain, can be that of destruction or revenge, but when entirely held becomes acceptance and compassionate action. This is what it means to hold. 

I invite us all to take time and hold our year. To hold our pains, our mistakes, our progress, and lack thereof. Hold your actions, your stories, your ideas, your emotions around it all. Hold it. Write it. Keep holding, be uncomfortable with the tension, but keep a loving eye on it. Hold it with the gentle hands of a mother who understands, Hold it and listen. Hold it and find out what you couldn't see before. Hold it all to see it become something new. And see yourself new too. 

After the emptying of Autumn comes the inner gathering of winter. Here, we gather ourselves through what we learned and what we Love. We gather ourselves in what we do- in the things we make: making meals, making beds, making memories and threads of creativity. Making candles and books. Making poetry and pictures. Making patterns of beauty to weave in the mess. And of course, to hold when we rest. For before we make, we hold. We hold ourselves and each other kindly. We hold hearts and hold hands. Hold pains and plans in a gaze that understands- We hold the world in our hands to kiss. To make and hold (when we're gone) is what we'll surely miss.