tenderness of twinkle lights

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 One of my favorite writers (Mari Andrew) shared a piece she wrote this month called “The Loneliness of Twinkle Lights,” which I resonated with so much that it inspired me to make this blog post. A quote from her piece is written at the end of this post. 

Lighting my room with my twinkle lights feels like such a sacred ritual in the winter. It makes something ache inside me as the soft glow illuminates just enough of the hollow space I feel in my heart this time of year. I lay in bed gazing at the lights like they are stars. I listen to my winter playlist and feel so delicate and fragile, like I could cry at any moment.


I am a hyper-sensitive being, and my sensitivity always seems to dial up even more this time of year. I welcome the Christmas season, but this year it feels much quieter in my heart while I string together moments of longing, loneliness, peace and tenderness. Here are some of those moments that have been strung out throughout my month of December:


As I shop for Christmas gifts in a local art store, I watch someone admire a winter photo by a local artist and explain to their friend how they had just been reading about a photographer from Minnesota who can capture every detail of a snowflake. 


My sister sends a picture of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree while spending a weekend in New York City. 


I finally seek time to journal and can feel my whole body exhaling. I feel comforted by the weight of pages under my left hand - all my words poured out from this entire year. 


I read the newsletter from one of my favorite writers that her leukemia has returned. She writes: “to learn to swim in the ocean of not knowing - this is my constant work.” I open my journal to pen my excruciating ache about why this illness continues to cling impossibly to each day that I live. 


I light a new candle at the beginning of December and listen to Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell and feel an ache in my heart so strong all I can do is cry. 


I come across a drawing of beluga whales in a local art shop and feel my chest tighten as I long to send it to my cousin Claire. 


I watch as the elderly client with dementia squints hard at the photos on his bedside table and says “I don’t remember.” 


I watch a Netflix Christmas show that takes place in Norway and dream about spending Christmas there, in a completely separate part of the world.


Two days ago I wrote in my journal: “there seems to be something about turning the lights on, lighting a candle, and listening to my winter music… it all has the same feel that is peaceful, sad, lonely and tender all at once. I feel energy here… going to go blog about it!”


And so here I am - all of these words woven with my twinkle lights that are lit in the background.


And to close, in her piece, Mari Andrew beautifully writes:


"My loneliness crescendos toward the end of the year, as relentless darkness hugs the city on both sides of the day and the sidewalks stay brightened by those ever-evocative twinkle lights... This is where I see my plaguing state of loneliness in a different way. Just as my hyper-sensitivity to my surroundings is inextricably linked to my appreciation for my surroundings, my loneliness easily unravels into intense tenderness. I don't think my heart would feel so illuminated by this seasonal sweetness if it didn't also feel a bit isolated from it. Loneliness and tenderness are very close companions."


(If you are curious, here are some of the songs I've been listening to that certainly "dial up" these feelings of loneliness and tenderness... I hope they can bring you some illuminating comfort).


"Both Sides Now" by Josh Groban and Sara Bareilles


"A Case of You" by Noah Reid


"Winter Song" by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson

Comments

  1. madameplushbottomJanuary 8, 2022 at 8:03 AM

    Oh B, I find myself so happy to see when you've published a new blog post and then I also find myself avoiding reading the post. I want to be clear that my avoidance is not a negative thing - it isn't because I don't want to read what you have written . . . it is because I know your post will touch me and will likely bring up feelings. And I think, I feel raw from feeling so many things these past few years that I wonder if the next feeling will simply be too much.

    Mari says it well when she says that loneliness and tenderness are very close companions.

    I love all of the observations you have shared in your post and the reminder that Claire would have loved the drawings of the beluga whales. Thank you.

    I signed up for an art class that starts today - it's called Art Your Grief. I haven't picked up my art supplies since mid 2019 just before my parents fell ill. I hope to find a connection and a release. Love to you, B. Thank you for courageously sharing.

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