November Lights

I’ve been thinking about light a lot these past few weeks. The light in the sky, as it softens into wintery strands. The light we carry within and how we share it. The light of people who have passed on, how we remember it. Northern lights, which were astonishing earlier this week. Daylight as it moves through the hours, filtered through curtains, dying earlier as we move toward the Winter Solstice. Fireplace light on these now-chilly evenings. Candlelight as we gather with people we love for a cozy meal. 

Light fills our lives in so many ways.

As I write this in my small office across the hall from our bedroom, there is a south-facing window in front of my desk. The outside light is muted by both sheer white curtains and thin clouds. A small lamp on the upper right corner of my desk and a candle glowing near my laptop offer additional illumination.

Illumination is one of those words I love. It takes me beyond the idea of light to the idea of understanding. Of really seeing what’s in front of me. Of shedding light onto what baffles me, frustrates me, scares me, delights me. 

There are so many ways to put light into our lives, to illuminate what fortifies and supports us as well as what we need to walk away from or where we need to offer our help. As winter breathes across our rooftops and frosts our gardens, we become more aware of the need to keep warm. We turn on the lights earlier as darkness creeps in before dinnertime. We notice who is standing outside shivering without a warm light of their own.  

The invitation to share light and warmth is strong at this time of year. May we all find a way to share our own light, our own warmth, far and wide. 

A Poem Offering

With Thanksgiving coming up, I want to share this poem with you that I wrote a few years ago. It appears in the collection Prayer Gardening, which I co-authored with Constance Brewer (available from Kelsay Books).

Before You Set Your Table

The small oranges on the counter are wrinkled.
You cut one into eighths, toss it outside
beneath the bird feeder.
You wait, but no one comes.

It has been below zero all week.
You read about chickadees,
how they run hot, stay warm, masters of survival.
They are why you offered black oil sunflower seeds
in the feeder yesterday when it was ten below.

You believe the chickadees know you.
Sometimes you think the crows do, too.
They ate all the leftover stuffing one morning
when you scattered it around the back yard.

The oranges are for the cardinals.
You heard them earlier, recognized that whistle they have
when it's time to start this year's family.
They'll need whatever sustenance you can offer.

When you look out the window again,
a few orange pieces are gone.
You wonder if the squirrels got there first.
It doesn't matter. You're here
to fill any empty stomach,
hear the hunger beneath every song.

Photos by kcmickelson 2025