On the recent trip to Japan, I was in a dark place. Literally, the plane cabin to Tokyo was kept dark for 10 hours so people could sleep, but I only slept for three or four hours and then found myself sitting there reading, listening to music, watching a dumb movie, and also feeling deeply alone.
Granted, I often feel alone, it’s a lifelong condition. And thankfully, I could message with my iPhone, and a friend texted with me for nearly an hour—talking through feelings, reminding me of brighter things. Also, I was dumb, I hadn’t eaten in 12 hours and needed calories, I felt much better after a sandwich.
Still, it was mainly the darkness messing with my mood.
I’m not afraid of the dark, but I don’t like it. Am I a light-sensitive person, a SAD (seasonal affective disorder) person? I live in Southern California for plenty of reasons, and abundant sunlight plays a part. But I also love lamps, love them to be lit at all hours, it’ll be sunny outside and I still want all the lights on.
Winter light is maybe odd then for me to find so gorgeous. I took the coffee outside this morning and peered, marveling. It was more blue, less rosy, seemingly more distant. Cello sonata light, major and minor tones, but not dull, not dusty, not gray or hoary. It was more like ice, that embodied crystalline. Last Wednesday, I took a walk very early, gazing at the mountains, and stopped one moment, noticing how opalescent the granite ridges seemed, thinking wow, look at the geometry of the sky.
It’s barely winter and already I look forward to spring, but maybe winter is the real spring, as Edna O’Brien wrote in “Clara.” Maybe wisdom comes with winters, as Oscar Wilde wrote in La Sainte Courtisane. Maybe maybe, quote quote, blah blah blah—still, I went to college in Maine—talk about winter light—and I remember seeing the Wilde quote printed in one of the school’s catalogs, I liked it so much I wanted to get it tattooed on my back.
When I was young I identified with the idea that I was a winter person. At the time, it meant I was hard and tough, rational, calculating—wow, have I embraced the opposite as I age. I do still love cold temperatures, snow and ice, cold swims, but give me warmth and sensuality, give me intuition and humidity, give me disco, give me feelings, give me flaws.
Winter light reaches me from a great distance. I know all light reaches us from a great distance, but winter light feels to me like it’s traveled farther, so maybe I’m grateful for it more—yeah, that rings true.
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2023 movie recommendations from three friends who are film directors
Year-end lists actually worth reading
Some practical happiness advice I found compelling, and more
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Meditations in an Emergency is a weekly mini-essay from writer Rosecrans Baldwin about something beautiful. Paying subscribers receive a Sunday supplement with 3+ things to love, plus a monthly dispatch from the road, for some inbox wanderlust ⛰️
Rosecrans is the author of Everything Now, winner of the California Book Award. His most recent novel, The Last Kid Left, was one of NPR’s Best Books of the Year. Titles mentioned in this newsletter are stored on a Bookshop list, which pays a tiny commission for books sold
'Tis a good 'un! Would love some listening cues for winter light accompaniment / cello sonata recordings...