Dancing Light and Shadow

(Brought to the Way of the River by Jack Mandeville)

November—a soft, slow letting go. The trees are bare now, the air crisp and sharp, and the world around us is leaning toward silence. It’s that time of year when the days shorten, and darkness seems to slip in a little earlier, wrapping itself around us like a blanket. I can feel it, the pull of the darker half of the year. It’s no coincidence that many ancient cultures marked this turning point with rites, rituals, and stories, acknowledging the dance between light and shadow, life and death.

The days are dying, and so too, it seems, is the light. There’s something strangely sacred in the way the sun sets earlier each evening, sinking down into the earth like a tired traveler. The light, this precious thread of daylight, is slipping away. In a way,

There’s an old phrase I love, something from the Norse traditions: “Hail to the Dark Half of the Year!” In the old ways, the darkness was never something to fear, but a time of deep reflection, of going inward. The cold months were seen as a time for healing and renewal, not just for the body, but for the spirit. And that’s what I love about this part of the year—the stillness. The time to pause, to rest, and to listen to the quiet murmur of the earth beneath our feet.

The harvest has been gathered, the final fruits of summer have been stored away, and now, as the light wanes, we are called to honor the quiet. It’s like the land is teaching us how to let go. It’s a lesson we all need to learn at some point: how to release what no longer serves us, how to accept the changing seasons, how to make peace with the dark. The darkness is not our enemy. It is a companion, a teacher.

Transformation in the Dark

There’s something magical about these long evenings when the stars are bright and the sky feels vast. It’s like the world is holding its breath, waiting for something, and I think that something is transformation. In the darkness, the seeds of the future are being planted.

I like to light a candle this time of year, to honor the dying light, but also to remind myself that light will return. It always does. It’s the rhythm of things, this slow dance of darkness and light, life and death. The darkness isn’t forever—it just makes way for new beginnings. And in the meantime, we can sit with it, honor it, and learn its secrets.

So here’s to the dying light of late November, to the quiet wisdom that comes with the dark, and to the spirits that walk beside us during this liminal time. May we rest, may we listen, and may we welcome the return of the sun when the time is right. For now, though, let’s honor the quiet and the magic that lives in the shadows.