18 Dec A Short Season of Light
Every year, we decorate the tall trees in our front yard with warm white lights. It’s one of our small traditions. The lights wrap tightly around the trunks, then travel upward, thinning as they reach the branches, until the trees seem to glow from the inside.
The first night they were lit, we came home after dark. We slowed in front of the house, then stopped altogether, sitting in the car and watching them sparkle. The girls were delighted. It felt like the holiday season had arrived.
We only had that one night.
The next evening, we turned the corner toward home, already looking for the light ahead of us. It wasn’t there. We drove closer, confused, searching the trees for any sign of glow. There was none. When my husband went out to look, he found the wires had been cut. Somewhere nearby, I imagined a Grinch wandering the desert, undoing our small offering of holiday cheer.
I’ve been thinking about how this time of year carries an awareness that lives just beneath the surface. That we don’t always get to decide how long things last. Not lights. Not moments. Not even the things and people we love most. Some brightness is briefer than we would like.
The trees are dark now. But we saw them when they were lit. We noticed. We let ourselves delight in them while they were here. And maybe that is what this time asks of us. To pay attention while the light is here, and to carry it with us when it is gone.