Still. Waiting.

The Shaping of an Ending

Art from Susan Jamison

The light is returning in the northern hemisphere and winter is not over. I’m turning towards the proverb, it’s always darkest before the dawn, for orientation in how to pace myself in this last leg of winter. After months of cold and ice, there are cyclical teachings abound. In the natural world, many animals are still hibernating. Food reserves are low and there are no signs of new plant life. Because of this, the February full moon holds several names that refer to this time of seasonal deprivation. Hunger Moon, Ice Moon, Deep Snow Moon, and Bone Moon are but a few.

As a child who attended Catholic school, Lent was a part of this same seasonal unfolding. We were asked to consider giving up certain luxuries such as sweets or watching cartoons. Truthfully, as a child I never quite understood the point of Lent. Now, my contemplation about seasonal deprivation has me digging into the etymology. Lent is a Middle English abbreviation of lencten which relates to length, illuminating the longer days in spring. Another clear marker of time is found in the French word carême. Its older spelling quaresme brings the forty day countdown to Easter into view. And then, there’s the German Fastenzeit which can be broken down into fasten ‘fast’ + zeit ‘time.’ Fasten highlights other words such as steadfast and holdfast. In these cold lengthening days leading up to Spring, I’m in the steadfast discipline of waiting.

The first surges come forth as still waiting. I’m still waiting for results. Still waiting for financial returns from my investment of time and attention into the creative projects I have been tending for many years now. Still waiting on productivity to sustain me. There are signs of wear and tear that come with these frantic urgings. My writing hand is tight. My eyes are tired. The strain of looking at the computer screen is too much. My creative wells do not feel empty. I know the distinction having had experienced burnout in my teaching career. I’m not soul searching. I know my work in the world: to live out and love all aspects of my cycle. And it’s here in this precise time of seasonal deprivation, that I bring forth the terrifying declaration of ‘going fallow’ in a time of low reserves. I’m wanting to honor the impulse to pull in. My need for solitude and quiet is ever present. David Whyte’s words ring true:

We withdraw not to disappear, but to find another ground from which to see, a solid ground from which to step and from which to speak again, in a different way, a clear and rested, embodied voice to remember again as our own.

Still waiting…

So much arising. Gripping feelings of fear that the absence of this Menstrual Musing will go unnoticed in inboxes already too full.

Still waiting…

Sinking feelings of sadness that my writing is of little relevance.

Still waiting…..

Finally. A pucturing giving way to spaciousness.

Still. Waiting.

I am taking pause from my substack platform and I want to give this ending its proper place. I thank you, dear readers, for our time together in this way.

Still. Waiting.

If it be your will
That I speak no more
And my voice be still
As it was before

I will speak no more
I shall abide until
I am spoken for
If it be your will

Thank you, Leonard Cohen, for such clear guidance in the surrender that may only come in the disturbance of silence.

Still. Waiting.