In Helsinki we were once told, alcoholism and suicide rates have increased during the dark winter days since global warming has resulted in longer periods without snow. Snow reflects what light there is and so cheers the spirits, mud sadly does not have that advantage. Today morning barely blended into day and the afternoon just soaked into evening, as cheering as Lockdown blossoming into Tier 3. Lunchtime was nothing more than a slight amelioration of night. Light was a precious resource wasted, like spilt Sauvignon Blanc quickly mopped up by a dirty rag the colour of twilight. Poets have this word gloaming, which is supposed to infuse semi-darkness with a romantic ambience in which gloaming one can go roaming. However, living in it, breakfasting, lunching, walking and shopping in it has very little allure. It’s what we talk about with everyone we meet. It’s as if greyness is seeping into the veins, bowing backs and weighing down feet.
So like moths, butterflies and probably blue bottle flies, Deirdre and I went in search of the light today. Not like a Buddhist monk seeking enlightenment or a Magus following a star to Bethlehem, but heading for the garden centre to buy Christmas lights, and of course while there, festive face masks, poinsettia and other stuff which I’ve already forgotten. It’s sad to have been looking forward to a trip to the garden centre all weekend; it’s even sadder now it’s over and we haven’t got it to look forward to.
For several Christmases I’ve made do with old sets of lights and because I have a reluctance to throw anything out, any strings with only a remnant of a few lacklustre bulbs, have been wound up and hung in such a way, with other failed sets, as to cast a little
gesture of light against the bleakness. Every January I’ve been out in cold, wet, miserable conditions to bring in and store the lights. Usually they’re just crumpled up and shoved in a box with the assertion that I’ll sort them out later. Later always transpires to be next December on an equally cold wet and miserable day, when the strings have to be untangled, laid out, plugged in, failed bulbs identified, each one meticulously checked and twisted in, tried again and the process repeated. Last year I actually threw some out and felt bad about it all year. Now sets are manufactured with the bulbs sealed in anyway, but that still doesn’t prevent me from trying.
This year the whole village is desperate for light and we’re all getting ready for next Saturday for a community light up which will make Crich visible from outer space. But not too visible. On this day in 1954 according to a book I have, part of a meteorite crashed through the roof of a house in Alabama, “..bounced off a wooden console radio and struck 34 year old Ann Hodges as she slept on her couch.” She survived and this is the first recorded instance of an object from outer space hitting and injuring a human being.
Now the waiting is over, Advent has arrived, and we can begin waiting properly. It’s been very difficult this year not to get stuck into Christmas too early having been denied our other festivals. But now we can sing Christmas songs and put up our lights and trees with impunity. The whole point of Advent is that in darkness and loss we await the miracle – depending on our level of spirituality that might be a vaccine, Trump conceding defeat or the birth of Jesus. Some of you might enjoy this poem by Rowan Williams.
Advent Calendar
He will come like last leaf's fall. One night when the November wind has flayed the trees to the bone, and earth wakes choking on the mould, the soft shroud's folding.
He will come like frost. One morning when the shrinking earth opens on mist, to find itself arrested in the net of alien, sword-set beauty.
He will come like dark. One evening when the bursting red December sun draws up the sheet and penny-masks its eye to yield the star-snowed fields of sky.
He will come, will come, will come like crying in the night, like blood, like breaking, as the earth writhes to toss him free. He will come like child.
© Rowan Williams