how to grow in the dark
your bibliomancy forecast for the week of december 16th
LIFE RX 16 DEC 24
the ace of pentacles, and a line from Jenny Erpenbeck’s The End of Days:
“From the darkness a small hand reaches out to her, something yellow in its palm. Ah, finally Sasha is handing her the lemon she's been waiting for all this time.”
the aleatory
It just so happened that the winter I quit drinking was one of the coldest Iowa had experienced in fifty years. My apartment was only about a mile away from the university, but when I walked there or back, it was so cold that I had to stop two times to warm up: once in Prairie Lights, and one in the co-op.
It was so cold that I could hardly keep air in the tires of my car. Once, when I was filling them, my fingers got so cold that little beads of condensation appeared on them when I got back in the car.
There was one night in particular when the temperature, with windchill, went down to fifty below. (I tried to tell this to my Uncle Dave for bragging rights, but he said windchill “didn’t count.” If you grow up in Northwestern Iowa, you get to say things like this.)
It was so cold that it seemed like the sheer severity of the weather could possibly level my house, an old lilac Victorian that rattled in the wind like a wooden rollercoaster. Wind that comes across the plains seems to come from outer space. It has a quality where you can somehow tell that it has traveled across miles and miles of the world, and nothing has been able to stop or slow it.
Every day, I looked at the National Weather Service’s sunrise and sunset data. I needed to see the days get longer, even if it was just by a minute. I needed some evidence that time was passing, things were changing, and it wouldn’t be winter forever.
I like a hard season. I like it when things burn away. I like it when there’s something hard, almost impossible, to do. I don’t know why I like these things—there’s a part of me that loves severity, discipline, starkness.
By the end of that winter, I could go outside in 20-degree weather in just a sweatshirt. Extreme cold was no longer extreme.
And then it was spring. So sudden, as if someone had thrown a switch. You could hear—I swear to god—the grass grow. (Sounds like Rice Krispies.)
Moments of change are actually quite small. Putting down the phone. Turning left instead of right and finding a kumquat tree. Letting fear shake in you, and then going out, going to the party, pressing record, saying the first word.
the forecast
Look for beginnings. They are there. Accept all gifts—anything anyone wants to put into your hands is a gift. Pay attention to what glows.
writing prompt
Write ten sentences that have the flavor of ten different beginnings.
a chune
“Fear Is a Man’s Best Friend” by John Cale
I know I’ve recommended this song before. According to Spotify, it was far and away my most-loved and listened-to song in 2023. My favorite lyric has always been: “I’m a sleeping dog, but you can’t tell/When I’m on the prowl, you’d better run like hell.” (In other words: it’ll be over for you hoes.) There’s something a little menacing in this song, even through its piano arpeggios and scooping, sort of goofy bass line. Why is fear a man’s best friend? Because if you let it burn you, it will burn away something you don’t need anymore. And on the other side, you’re going to have that dog in you.
credits: small spells tarot deck by Rachel Howe
The End of Days by Jenny Erpenbeck
“Fear Is a Man’s Best Friend” by John Cale
dear diary, they say that “nothing grows in the dark,” but that’s actually completely untrue. Everything grows in the dark sometimes. And most things start in the dark. Important to remember, even if it doesn’t look like much. XS