A friend recently sent me a winter solstice poem.
I was happy to be reminded of this poem, and thought I’d pass it on to you–it’s so nice to be able to share what we enjoy and find helpful. The solstice is the darkest time of year, but it also is a time that reminds us of the lights around and within us.
Mary Oliver’s poem, “Snowy Night,” is a poem that reminds us to pay attention and to be with what is present, whether we understand it or not:
In the spirit of sharing what I love, I also want to invite you to join me for a five-day meditation and writing challenge. My writing challenges have been some of the most popular things I’ve offered, and I’m excited to run one again for the new year!Start 2020 off with meditation, writing and community–three things that support, nourish and strengthen us.Join me January 8th through January 15th (choose which days work best for you) and commit to giving just 15 minutes a day–on your own timeline–to your practice. And join the private facebook group for accountability and community.This is a beautiful way to center, get clarity, tap into your authentic voice, and to set new patterns for yourself. Participants have had big breakthroughs and insights in these challenges in the past.Whether you’ve done one of my challenges before or whether you’re new to them, I’d love to see you in the challenge. Mark your calendar and invite friends and family to join us! See more about the challenge and sign up here: https://nadiacolburn.com/free-meditation-and-writing-challenge/
I wish you wonderful holidays, whatever you celebrate, and a strong start to 2020—a new year and decade. May we show up for what we believe in and support one another.
with love and much appreciation,
Snowy Night by Mary Oliver
in the blue dark
tossed an indeterminate number
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.