Port Potager

I spent this winter solstice at the funeral of a beloved friend.  She was full of light and energy, and it is so very dark here right now — as if the sun were suddenly snuffed instead of just warming the other side of the planet for a bit.  I lack. I lack words to express this loss. I lack all resources to stand up against the waves of sadness that have really only just begun to crash around me. I lack any ability to cypher out the ledger sheet of this year, which has been filled with more loss — in the world at large and in my corner of it — than I can tally.  This photo gets at something I haven't been able to say, though. This is MaryClaire, walking away, holding Jonas' tiny hand and no doubt teaching him something about that big, beautiful world around them. He's only five there, and that's also gone, replaced by something study and clever but less soft and trusting.  And, now, much more sad.  So there they are, my friend ...

Once upon a time, in the bleak midwinter, we would get depressed. I don't think this is unusual in and of itself, but we used to channel our Seasonal Affective Disorder  by plotting grand plans of escape and/or renovation: the unbuilt garage-mahal, the kitchen remodel, the first garden re-do at the Red House, an untaken sabbatical in England. It should come as no surprise that we moved to Newburyport during the Winter Solstice. Some things come to fruition; other plans are shelved as the days get longer. One of our lingering fantasies from the dark days is the idea that we should pick up and move to England. Or Wales. (And yes, we are aware that winters are actually darker there. Nobody claims this is logical.) We actually almost did it once, going so far as to applying for work visas and taking tests to prove we are competent speakers of English. (Alas, U.S. workers have to jump through many more hoops that their E.U. counterparts, which makes no sense as the linguistic and cul...