The Coming of Light

A Jackson summer day with a trundling Will.

I don't mind the early dark of the season. It gives me a greater appreciation for the nests of light around our home provided by various lamps as if each is a separate island in a sea of shadow. It offers me the opportunity to become dazzled by the dancing flicker of a candle flame as its tiny warmth and circle of illumination reaches to me. It reminds me of the comforts of books and soups and tea; of the charm of finding coziness. We are two and a half weeks away from our darkest day of the year, right before the days slowly stretch themselves out and the night starts to shrink. 

All of that being said, today this photograph called to me. It's of a summer day in Jackson. Will is trundling along near the high grass and the hidden bears and all that we don't see in abandon of summer growth while Mount Washington overlooks everything from far behind. I was drawn to the light, to the green, to the vibrancy of both flora and fauna, and one little life sending ripples of reclamation out into the universe.

In a way, this photograph doesn't belong here today, for these are troubled times in the world and dark nights and short days in nature. But in other ways, this photo of Will means even more. It is, after all, the season of Advent, which brings with it the light of anticipation. Advent, in part, means "coming." When something is coming, there's something to look forward to. That's something to celebrate, for no matter how dark the world may seem because of how people act, or by the location of the sun and the earth and the rotation of the seasons, there is something to behold when we realize we can still celebrate the coming of a new day.