The cat snuggles down

into my empty suitcase,

out to fill for a trip. She

knows something’s up.

It’s a bed, she insists.

A warm place, even an

instrument of stasis. I

let her nestle there,

passing on to other

bustling that needs

doing, done. That I’ve

lived out of a suitcase

won’t perhaps make

my obituary. Not much

does. Yet it is the things

we’ve lugged place

to place; it is the cat

let sleep that is,

was, what we were.

That old Zen mind

Basho said, “Noble,

noble, not to think of

life when you see

a flash of lightening.”

I say, impossible too

to pack for the long road

and not dwell on passing.

I did not plan to write this post. In fact, I had intended to write something very, very different.

Given that this weekend marks the winter solstice, I had wanted to write something poignant and insightful about the beauty of the season. I wanted to write about the joys that winter brings, about sledding and snow angels and hot chocolate. I had planned to write something spiritual about the way that winter’s long nights give us a chance to rest and reflect. I wanted to write something optimistic about all of the warmth that lingers in the chilly winter, about growth and rebirth, about the the changing seasons as a reminder that everything is temporary.

I wanted to write about these things. I had planned to write about these things, had hoped to write about these things.

But I just couldn’t do it.

Because, honestly, I FREAKING HATE WINTER.

Try as I might to dig deep spiritually and see all the good that winter offers, I just can’t seem to do it. In fact, I hate almost everything about winter. I hate the snow and ice and frigid temperatures. I hate the bulky sweaters and heavy boots and the way my hands are always cold. I hate the muddy puddles that pool by the door. I hate that it’s dark at 4:30 in the afternoon. I hate shoveling. And I hate that it takes longer to get my kids dressed in their winter gear – coats, snowpants, hats, and mittens – than it does to actually get where we are going.

The optimist in me wants to learn to love all of life’s seasons, even the cold and dark ones. And the UU in me is trying desperately to “respect the interdependent web” and enjoy winter for its role in that cycle of connectedness. Yet despite my spiritual, optimistic, glass-is-half-full attempts to appreciate winter, the simple truth is that I HATE WINTER and I’m only hoping to survive the next few months.

I want to be more tolerant of winter’s harsh personality. I want to see God’s beauty in the dormant bud as much as in the flowering bloom. I want to be stronger, more resilient to the bitter and biting cold. I want to be more flexible to the changing seasons on the calendar and in life.

But some days, it is just so hard to be tolerant, to see the beauty, to be resilient. Some days it is really hard not to be consumed by the darkness. Sometimes it is almost impossible not to rage against change, almost impossible not to scream “ENOUGH ALREADY! I CAN’T TAKE ANYMORE!” (By now you’ve probably figured out that I’m not just talking about winter here.)

It feels selfish and self-indulgent to wallow in my disdain for what amounts to a minor inconvenience, a slight discomfort. It seems short-sighted and pessimistic to focus on the darkness and the harsh conditions. It feels feeble and gloomy to wallow in the ugliness, desperate and ungrateful to long for lighter, warmer days.

But does loving life mean that we have to hide our disdain for the colder times? Does respecting the web of connection mean that we have to delight in all aspects of a network so complex and delicate that we cannot possibly make sense of it all? And does the cultivation of gratitude mean that we are prohibited from yearning for better, brighter days?

Hardly.

Maybe tolerance doesn’t come from looking with favor on every hassle and indiscretion, but rather through an admission of our unhappiness and a willingness to move through it. Maybe resilience and flexibility don’t ask that we greet bleak conditions with delight, but simply that we acknowledge the discomfort with truth and kindness.

And maybe Grace isn’t found in pretending the dark and cold times aren’t exactly what they are – hard and difficult. Maybe Grace comes from a simple acknowledgement that “THIS SUCKS,” followed by a deep breath and the inherent understanding that, for better or worse, this too shall pass.

This article originally appeared on the author’s website.

There’s a certain Slant of light,

Winter Afternoons –

That oppresses, like the Heft

Of Cathedral Tunes –

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –

We can find no scar,

But internal difference,

Where the Meanings, are –

Emily Dickinson

“Yule” (jul) means “wheel” in Norse. The Norse looked at this time of year, facing the darkest and longest night, “Mother Night,” as they called it, and told a story of the night the goddess Frigga left her spinning wheel and labored long and hard to give birth to the light of a new year.

Hiding in the Christian advent wreath is Frigga’s wheel. And the mistletoe? Well!

Odin, the All-Father, and his wife Frigga (or Frigg or “Fria” in Old Saxon) had twin sons, Baldur and Hodur (or Tyr,god of war).

Hodur was a dark and moody boy, a cold loner who spoke to no one. His brother Baldur was a beautiful, radiant boy, and all the gods loved him (excepting one, named Loki).

One day Baldur came to his mother and said, “Mother, for these past seven nights, each night I have had a dream, and that dream shows me that I will die, killed by an arrow made from the branch of a tree.”

As you might suspect, Frigga was very, very worried about her darling boy, and went around to all the trees of the wood, speaking to each one of them and imploring them, “Please, whatever you do, please do not kill my lovely boy Baldur.”

And each tree in its turn promised Frigga that no harm would come to him by one of their branches.

But in her worry and haste, Frigga failed to speak to one family of the woods—one tree—the mistletoe, which grows without having its roots in the earth.

And so it was that Loki—the terrible trickster among the gods, and the only one of the gods who resented Baldur’s radiance and cheerfulness—fashioned an arrow of the mistletoe and, going to visit dark Hodur, Loki said, “Here. Try shooting my marvelous bow! Here’s an enchanted arrow. Try shooting it over the roof of the house.”

And so dark Hodur shot the arrow made of mistletoe. And who should it hit, standing on the other side of the roof beam, but Baldur his brother, who bled to death, writhing in the lush green grass.

As you expect, Frigga was inconsolable. She wept and wept and as she wept the nights  reflected her mood, growing longer and longer. And soon darkness seized the world.

Her weeping was so terrible that Odin the All-Father at last could stand it no more, and so he saddled up his horse and rode all the way to the domain of the dead. There, he found Baldur and brought him back to the land of the living.

And so it is that in midsummer, in all the lands of the North, on those nights when the light never really goes away, there is great feasting, celebrating the sunny god Baldur, though people know that already, even on the longest of days, Hodur is notching his murderous arrow.

And in the darkest nights of winter we celebrate Baldur’s return to Frigga’s womb, because on the darkest night, called Mother Night, Baldur will be reborn, thus slowly bringing the light and warmth back again.

This is the celebration at Winter Solstice. And we remember Frigga, the great goddess of the hearth and of fertility, each week in English, with “Fri-day,” “Fria’s Day.”

I suspect nearly everyone feels a bit of desperation sometimes, looking out the window at what is supposed to be the afternoon—and it’s dark out there. It’s night. It oppresses, as Emily Dickinson says, “like the heft of cathedral tunes.”

Yes. Winter feels like a really long church service. Baldur is dead—slain by the mistletoe. That wily trickster Loki has won again and darkness and sadness rule the land.

Wouldn’t it be nice this time of year if we had something to look forward to?

Well, by golly, the ancestors thought of that. In lots of different traditions.

All those candles mean . . .  something.

Perhaps Odin is saddling up his horse again.

And Mother Night will soon go into labor once again.

Or perhaps it’s a peasant girl from Palestine.

Or Demeter wailing for her lovely daughter Persephone.

Or some other mom perhaps happy to be beating the IRS deadline.

Whatever. Whoever. It’s good—even for the most protesting of Protestants—to celebrate the circles and cycles of time because they mark a symbolic space in the chaos of reality, and add meaning to the passing of our lives.

And meaning . . . in the winter dark, meaning is a good thing.

In 1642, during the British Civil War, Protestant troops of Cromwell’s New Model Army celebrated taking the city by looting the cathedral at Winchester. Troops used the stained glass windows for target practice and showed their disdain for monarchy and Catholic saints by smashing open crypts and pitching the bones through the stained glass windows. Construction on Winchester Cathedral had begun in 1079 on a site where a Christian church had stood since the 600s.

This was the second iconoclastic spasm in England. The first, three hundred years earlier, had been under the direction of Henry VIII. At that time, medieval statues had been smashed and used for building material. Perhaps the most egregious instance occurred at Canterbury Cathedral, where the shrine to Thomas A Beckett, constructed in 1220, was smashed to dust in 1538. The shrine, destination of Chaucer’s pilgrims, had long stood for the supremacy of religion over the state. Henry was having none of that.

The Protestant iconoclastic spirit traveled to the Western Hemisphere with the Pilgrims and Puritans, who built wooden meeting houses without adornment or symbol.

Religions are funny about symbols. Hebrew law forbade graven images. Muslim art is abstract and Muslims get testy about depictions of Mohammed. The Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches split over the question of icons. Worn out Torahs are buried. Don’t burn the Koran. And Bibles? Search the web on that one. Protestants are all over the map in relation to religious symbols.

First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis, where I serve as minister, is a good example of what we might call the ultimate in Protestant protesting. There are no symbols at all in the sanctuary—called in classic humanist fashion an “assembly hall.” Built in 1951 in the International Style of the time, the walls are brick and wood and glass. Cromwell’s New Model Army would find nothing to complain about in the assembly hall. Kings and saints; icons and symbols have all gone out the window. There is even some suspicion of the one image—deliberately left ambitious in the tradition—of Unitarian Universalism, the chalice.

What’s up with religions and symbols? What is it about images and imagination?

It’s easy to forget that for most of human history there were no movies; no TV shows; no photographs. Not even “realistic” art of the sort that developed in the Renaissance. For the most part, realistic representation occurred only in sculpture, a 3D representation.

There is still debate about whether or not audiences ran in terror upon seeing the first motion picture, Lumiere’s “L’arrivee d’un train en gare de La Ciotat,” in 1896. Whatever really happened, the human mind began to change when pictures began to move. Previously, movement had occurred only in reality, dreams, or visions. Now, we see moving images everywhere. What has that done to the human mind?

The image, the symbol, is central to human understanding. The McDonald’s “M” speaks to more people than any other in the world. The Mercedes icon is one of the most often stolen objects in the world. We huddle around glowing screens to watch stories unfold.

Even atheists, in the unadorned walls of an assembly hall, imagine a symbol—even if a negative one—called “god.” John H. Dietrich, a minister at the church I serve and one of the originators of “religious humanism,” said, “The human mind invariably confuses the symbol with the thing symbolized.” The implication: mistrust symbols. Yet, oddly, it is not only the most protesting Protestant who believes this. A Byzantine hymn contains these words: “Free me from symbols, from words, that I may discover the signified.” And Hindu thinkers, in their own forest of symbols, said, neti, neti, “not this, not that.”

We may hurl bones through all the windows of stained glass, yet, somehow, as happened at Winchester Cathedral after the Civil War, the windows will be restored. The citizens of Winchester could not afford to repair the windows to their former glory, so they glued the pieces back together as a hodgepodge, a mosaic. The symbol always comes back.

Thanksgiving American style. The day declared a national holiday for the purpose of giving thanks. Despite the best efforts of those of a theocratic bent, who or what to thank remains open to interpretation.

My thanks goes to the universe that just keeps cranking out good things. As the fifth chapter of the Daodejing puts it,

The space between

sky and earth is empty,

like a bellows, moving

and moving, and

out comes more.

That’s something to be thankful for. Yet problems begin when all of that “more” between earth and sky begins to get divvied up. And, Thanksgiving being a national holiday, I can’t help thinking of the portion of the universe’s “more” taken by this particular nation and how that “more” is divvied up within our borders. It its harsh realism the Daodejing says,

The universe is neither

“good” nor “evil” outside

of human standards.

The universe treats all things

like so many straw dogs.

Recent survivors of various weather-related calamities might agree with that. Then there are these next lines:

Earthly rulers treat people

like so many straw dogs.

Well, maybe in the China of 400 BCE rulers treated people like so many straw dogs, but here in the US . . .  Oh, wait. There was that government shutdown. There is that sequestration. There is that surveillance. Those drones. Oh, and then there’s work on Thanksgiving. And Black Friday. Rising poverty. Rising hunger. Straw dogs.

For Daoists, the answer is clear: the universe itself has no morality—it is neither good nor evil, and governments almost inevitably act in self-interest without regard to the greater good. It’s not what we learn in school, but evidence indicates another story.

I lost my childhood faith for the “big guy in the sky” when I began to suspect the moral calculus of the universe. When I began to suspect that “good” and “evil” are thoughts only in the human mind.

Does “god,” or does “god” not, decide who gets the cookies? And what is the basis for that judgement? Nation of birth? Social class? Skin tone? Religious affiliation?

Is it a moral act to thank such of deity for choosing me? Or my nation? My social class? My skin tone?

It’s not that I’m not thankful. But I’m not thankful to a deity that would put one child in Switzerland and another in Somalia. Such a deity does not deserve thanks, however mysterious “his” ways might be. And a deity that merely reflects the workings of the bellows of the universe? What’s the point?

Government? Yes, I grew up with those cardboard Pilgrims with their very white faces taped to the classroom windows. I understand what I was supposed to take away. Am I thankful to a government that protects the rapacious while ignoring the basic humanity of most of its citizens? Not so much.

Where might the thanks go? To luck? To fortune? To randomness? To that bellows that just keeps pumping?

Perhaps, finally, all we can do is watch and try as hard as we may to resist cynicism and complicity with the powers of what we human beings view as evil.

Here’s the advice to the Daoist:

Take care of what

is within yourself;

the outside will never

stop moving

and moving.

Thankfulness in the face of what we human beings call good and evil must serve as a reminder to think through who and what is dividing up the blessings. Yes, tornados and typhoons sweep away both the good and the bad. The universe treats us all like so many straw dogs. We find ourselves enmeshed in systems of oppression. Our choice is our work against those systems, and how we treat each other.