Now let there be a festival where we not gather, but go out singly and in pairs and, by another way, come into stillness.
Let it be a festival for quiet thinking, for gazing past the windows with anticipation of big weather, for dreaming through an afternoon, a time with books, the radio, a festival for introverts, for what was lost this year, a solemn festival of story telling the myths of family and what time will do.
Let the excitable brain doze while a slow walk is taken amongst the snowy owls or eagles, in a field empty of angels, along a turbulent river bright with spent fish. Let it be a festival of small birds, involving their antics, of standing still in dry grasses, shivering with the humility this requires, glasses fixed on their cheerful dippings on the precipice of Now.
Let it be a festival of light, the way it spins in starwheels, drifts through snowfields, how it arcs in the borealis, sparks off a glacier, the flash of caribou passing, a ptarmigan’s wing, tail of a silver fox, the glint of sky in a peregrine’s eye.
Ah, the blue fire of crystals, this blazing world refracted, reflected, redolent in its dying, our having squandered so much on mindless comfort and joy.
Yet bring again the light of a thousand thousand sandpipers dipping suddenly to east then west.
Now let there be a festival for the shining gospels of what remains.
– Marianne Worcester