As the Winter Solstice draws near, and I walk out in the dark of a misty rain, the garden whispers in still quiet corners, rather than bursting with the abundance of midsummer. Midwinter, yet violets bloom. Wintersweet, blooming behind still green foliage, broadcasts such a strong sweet scent one must bend close to smell the violets. In other sheltered places the fuschia continues to bloom as do the begonias. Pansies reach for what sun they may find. Spring bulbs push up from the blanket of fallen leaves. This year as I work outside in the cold the song in my head is the Heron Carol, in the moon of winter time when all the birds had fled, the mighty Gitche Manitou sent angel choirs instead... I love that the early church chose to celebrate Jesus, the light of the world, in this time of darkness.
"But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light. I Peter 2:9"