The spiral turns inward, away from the noise and the superficial gaiety of the season. I am conscious of how far away all that has become. I am comfortable here although I know I can't stay here for ever.
The stillness is deepest when I am spinning at my wheel. Rhythmic movement takes the edge off my thoughts and allows me to send them back toward the door, with a pat on the head and a piece of chocolate for the journey. Weaving sometimes draws me here, but often the reality of keeping track of the treadles on the loom keeps me too connected to the everyday to really slip away from thinking. Forget knitting. Anything that makes me look and count is going to keep me firmly rooted in the mundane. So, I spin. There is nothing to remember, nothing to see and nothing to count. The treadles go up and down and the yarn forms in my fingers. I am not there.
So far, the only surprise is that the center isn't a dark and unknown place this time. I've been here before, and I'm wondering why I have already received an answer, perhaps THE answer for this midwinter.
You bring your own light with you.
Write that down and think about it. That's how I'm going to spend my time in the center.