Between Darkness and Light

There are moments when nothing is finished — and nothing needs to be.

 

These two polar foxes are, for me, an image of transition.

Not of peace, but not of war either.

Rather of a moment when something is changing —

and is not yet certain how it will unfold.

Here in Iceland, winter and summer do not pass the crown quietly.

There is no polite handover.

They overlap.

They return.

They test their place again and again.

It feels as if neither side wants to disappear completely.

And perhaps neither should.

 

The light is returning.

My morning walks are no longer submerged in darkness.

The mind wakes earlier than it used to.

Each day brings a small sip of light —

not enough to overwhelm,

but enough to stir.

And every time this shift happens,

it gently interrupts my winter stillness.

Winter carries depth.

It is inward, quiet, contained.

In winter, we draw our sap down into the roots.

Into darkness.

Into the place where nothing grows outward —

but everything matures.

Now, the sap begins to rise.

Not suddenly.

Not forcefully.

Slowly.

 

Light brings with it an energy

that no longer allows us to simply be.

It asks what we will do with it.

Where we will let it flow.

What we are ready to nourish.

And yet this year,

I feel the need to remain in the dark a little longer.

Not because I reject the light.

I see it coming.

I know it is right.

But there is something within me

that still needs to unfold inside.

Something that cannot yet be exposed to sunlight.

Not as resistance —

but as care.

 

This painting carries a subtle fear as well.

Not fear of the light,

but fear of releasing control.

When winter hands over the crown,

it will be pushed aside by light for a while.

Stars will disappear from the night sky.

But flowers will grow.

People will breathe more freely.

They will move.

They will dance in the sun.

And then —

one day —

a storm will come.

The kind that does not ask,

but brings change.

Not to destroy,

but to remind us of rhythm.

 

Just as today I stand at the door

behind which light is arriving,

one day I will stand at another door

behind which darkness returns.

It is an eternal inhale and exhale.

And we are part of that rhythm.

Today, it is still a deep exhale.

But within it, I already feel the shift.

The release.

The quiet transformation

into a calm inhale.

I am an exhale becoming an inhale — and that is enough.

 

Kate