Not as polar as I used to be
Golden hour is lovely, and so is blue hour. (Image by D Mz)
Living on campus as a freshman at the University of Maine, I had, for the first time in my life, a reason to venture outside after dinner on a fall evening.
After all, I had to make the short walk back to my dorm. And though it was a bit chilly, I would look up to see the breathtaking sight of the sky at dusk, a depthless expanse of lapis lazuli blue, as yet unblemished by stars. It looked different at this high latitude, just a few miles south of the 45th parallel, just about halfway between the equator and the North Pole.
Of course, I took this beauty for granted, as I did most things at the time. I didn’t like being stuck in Maine, in a small town even colder and more remote than the cold, remote small town I grew up in. I craved a more cosmopolitan place to belong to. Unfortunately, my early attempts to venture out and make a life for myself elsewhere always seemed to land me back home eventually.
I remember one spring evening when I was in my early twenties. I was teaching public school in the town my father grew up in, living in a beach house in the town I grew up in. Everyone I knew, it seemed, was either of my parents’ generation or a child.
Out for a walk, I passed over a river, still and motionless at low tide. I grabbed a stone and threw it in, just to see the splash. I needed proof that I existed — proof, in my isolation and boredom, that I could literally make an impact. It was then that I knew I had to leave for good.
Within a few months, I was gone. I started a new life in Atlanta, where the sky is starless virtually all the time due to light pollution; where, it seemed, everyone was my age and there was always something going on. I loved it.
Inevitably, however, I once again longed for the quiet and natural beauty I had known as a child. So here I am, back in Maine, in a small city even more isolated than the ones I lived in before. And it’s been interesting to come to terms with the things I found so frustrating as a young adult. This time, I’m choosing them on purpose.
What’s different? Well, there are some practical things. I have a nice pair of boots to keep my feet warm, along with a wardrobe of handmade woolens for my other extremities. I don’t have to ice off my car in the morning to get to school or work, because I work from home whenever I like. And I’m not isolated at all — the Internet allows me to interact with people all over the world.
The bigger change, however, is within myself. In that moment of looking at the evening sky back in college, I saw a glimpse of a broader truth: There is wonder anywhere you take the time to look for it, and community anywhere you choose to build it. I have learned to delight in the things that make a place special without wishing for something else. I have come to appreciate seasons and cycles on their own merits. And I can always make myself open to connecting with others.
I no longer see winter as the enemy. And on this, the longest night of the year, I can find a lot of joy in the lights and candles everywhere, the festive energy that’s present even now, in 2020.
I used to think the city was better than the country. That going out at night was better than staying in. That the summer solstice was better than the winter solstice. Now, I see that they’re simply different. I’m not attached to either extreme. A lot more of life has opened up to me as a result.
The sun will set tonight — today — at 4:01 PM. I used to hate it. Now, I embrace it. No matter how dark it is, I can always feel a glow of warmth. I hope you can feel it, too. Wishing you and your family all the best on this darkest day in the Northern Hemisphere.
