For This is No Dance of Magic, But a Flare Thrown Up Into The Darkness

The Christmas lights switch on.

​An annual event that gets the whole community together. From the littlest ones in their ‘My First Christmas’ onesies to the oldest of old, taking extra care as they walk towards the big green centrepiece. It's the talk of the town for the week before and after.

That anticipation as you all gather round a darkened tree. Seemingly just like any other that lined the streets that night. You bunch up and rub shoulders as you grasp your hot chocolate tight. The hushed whispers as you try to guess the colour of this year’s baubles.

The littles on shoulders, the middles on tiptoes and the biggest at the back, framing the crowd like the perfect family picture.

The chorus of voices ring out for the countdown. That one unified breath held just after the final number.

And there it is.

The moment when the world becomes once again full of light. And light in the most magical sense.

With glittering baubles and twinkling tinsel, the smiling faces reflect back as much light as they receive.

Then the voices ring out as the light sparks up a merry song.

It’s a moment to treasure.

And one you couldn’t bear to miss.

But there’s another kind of light switch on at this time of year.

One that’s not often mentioned.

It comes with no festivities. No celebratory drinks or off-key singing.

It happens alone.

In a quiet home, in a room darkened all too soon.

It’s just as much a tradition, but one I don’t want to pass down.

Where I take out a dusty box I’d hoped had seen its last festive season.

Turn it on and hope beyond hope that it will teach me how to breathe again.

Now the SAD lamp is lit.

Not with a countdown but with the same bated breath.

For this is no dance of magic, but a flare thrown up into the darkness.

The crowds don’t gather, but my soul does.

I sit front row seat to a lightbox filled with batteries and electricity.

In the hopes that artificial daylight can bring my spirit up.

As the early nights are drawing in and the air thickens with frost, the night comes all too soon and seems to hesitate to leave in the morning.

The darkness isn’t full of magic and possibilities, but of heaviness and my hollowed out bones.

The light doesn’t sparkle or glitter. It doesn’t reflect the faces of innocent joy back to those absorbed in its glow.

But it brings a small spot of light to an otherwise weary soul.

And there is no song and dance, no cheers to another Merry Christmas.

It's a much smaller light and the switch costs a lot more to press.

There's no clapping or cheering. Just a sigh and my aching eyes.

But lighting a SAD lamp isn't sad.

No, it's my ritual of strength.

Of hope.

It’s my beacon to the world. To myself. That this Winter will pass and one day, a new Spring - a new light will return.

And that's always something to be hopeful about.