Dear December,

Here we are again, meeting together for what feels like such a short span. It is a special and memorable time, as you are to be the last memories we carry with us into the next year. It is quite a busy time for you, my dear December, and sometimes I worry for you. Expectations adorn every corner and rooftop, wishes are strung from the rafters, and intentions pour out through chimneys. I imagine it can be quite burdensome, but, my dear, I know that that is not all that you are. Your quieter, and softer ways might sometimes go unnoticed, but my darling, I see glimpses of them everywhere.

Today, I took a walk outside and felt your frigid embrace. Your cool fingers traced lines across my face, lingering long at the tip of my nose. My exhaled breaths formed a cloud, mingling briefly with your air. I saw the masterful artwork you created in the crystalized ice, woven together over puddles and along the edges of fallen leaves. I heard your soft melody of quiet murmurs, and feathery chirps, high among the trees. Lofty boughs of maple and mulberry swayed gently in time, as you danced among them, and left twigs and roots sleeping blissfully below.

When the sun sunk slowly below the horizon, deep shades of indigo, violet, and gold, were painted across your sky. The moon came out with its yawning grin in place of the sun and it was time for me to slip back inside, away from your cold. With the coming of night, your stillness spread out to the farthest reaches of earth and sky, encasing the world in a solemn globe of rest. Even so, I heard the call of owls sending messages to one another as they hunted for prey, and the howl and yip of coyotes, far into the hills, crying out for their pack.

You are all of those things, my dear December, and so many more.

Lastly, and not the least of which, is that you are also the time we honor and remember the peace and joy that was delivered to the world in such a small and gentle bundle, all those years ago. Under a starry night sky, the universe and all that exists within it was transformed, as a small breath, like a flake of snow, was breathed into the world for the first time. It isn’t until you arrive, that we stop and remember all that we’d forgotten and what it means to be loved, forgiven, and delivered from pain and sorrow. All such things we long for and yearn for, yet are nigh impossible to find through ordinary means.

My dear December, you are not the only busy time of the year. So too, are your brothers and sisters January, June, and all the rest. Though, without you, my dear December, I fear we may not take time to truly remember and reflect upon how love came into the world, so meek and mild, bringing light and healing to the darkness. For that, I must offer you my sincerest gratitude. And as we say goodbye, already, I am looking forward to our meeting again next year, and hoping that we will find each other well.

Yours ever,

Lady S