A loud silence moved my spirit to stillness. I stood in my backyard, coffee mug in hand, weirdly not too cold in my pajamas and my son’s crocs. I listened to to the roar of nothing and then to wind. I absorbed the quiet. This was the in-between space – waiting for the oven to preheat, waiting for the light to fully arrive. Lavender gray clouds filled my yard with dim blue light. It was gentle on my senses. The sky rarely looks quite like this.

This Sunday morning is wildly quiet. No traffic, no one walking, no voices, not even any birds. It’s the winter solstice – the increasing darkness of fall pivots to the winter’s cold return of the light. This is the darkest it gets. As I type this, in the time it took to bake the bread and put together some words, the light has ebbed in, like a high tide over a beach. We’ll have the briefest day.

I had wanted to gather people to celebrate this. The pace of life prevented proper planning; illness showed up to slow me down anyway. I am feeling better, though I am baking bread to bring to a church service I will not stay for.

I want to mark these moments with ritual, and find myself caught in decision paralysis and then life. The moments happen regardless.

Maybe some years I simply mark it through noticing.