Longest Night. Shortest Day.

This winter solstice came and went just as it's done throughout my life. "The official start of winter," the local weatherman beamed on the morning news. But this year was the first where I truly noticed its impact. After all, it was hard not to.

A blue dawn which seemed would never come finally yielded to a dreary, gray day. The tangible darkness somehow even managed to creep inside the house to fight with the outlaw 40-watt bulbs within certain lamps. By noon, sunset looked as though it was only minutes away and I wondered if this was how living through an Alaskan winter felt.

But it wasn't just me who sensed the darkness of the shortest day. My whole family was tired, even the newest of us. Our motions were slow and lethargic and our den finally earned its name. The perfect day for pajamas, slippers and a night cap, I thought. If only we still wore night caps.  

Night caps or not, people have always celebrated this time of darkness when warmth and sunshine seem so far away. And it would make sense, too, since this solstice marks the painfully slow parade of the longer days, where light builds upon light and ultimately the warmth of summer's party prevails. 

It's easy to turn inward during these dark days and nights. We can take this time to explore our own selves, our own thoughts, fears and souls. We can take this as a gift to surrender to the darkness and let it rule. At least for now, after the solstice has passed and we have the optimism to know that those short nights and long, light-filled days will be here soon. Until the summer solstice.