Of course, all through this past summer my surprise was renewed every day by how light it was, so late. The day seemed never-ending; I had to close the blinds just to cut the glare enough to read in the early evenings. I had no idea that this would be the price for that largess, that overabundance of sunlight. It was the same in Dublin, I remember, how late we could walk those unlit village roads at night in the beginning of fall, and how as Christmas closed in so did the night, until all I wanted to do was huddle in my blanket next to the electric heater with the red foil flickering to imitate fire, clutching a bottle of wine and trying to decide if whatever might be on BBC2 would be worth getting up and crossing the cold room for.
I have lived so many places since then, through many different kinds of winters: winters of sand, and snow, and equatorial monsoons. Winters of heartbreak, of children's delirium, and the winter my neighbor's chihuahua bit me while I was putting Christmas light in my yard (which actually counts as pretty damn funny, although it's left me with quite a prejudice against lap dogs).
This winter is hard. No matter how hard I work, nothing gets done and the bizarre centrifuge of daily life throws out more and more things that need to be done even as I fail to accomplish the things that were flung out before. I'm exhausted and overwhelmed, even as I recognize all of the things I have to be grateful for. I'm grateful enough already, dammit! What I really need is a few more hours of daylight. And possibly a chihuahua for comic relief.