As our Mother Planet continues her year-long journey, hurling our part of the world quickly towards it’s most extreme distance away from the sun, the daylight continues to wane. On my way to tend to the birds this morning, I pass through the sleeping garden. The beds, that just a few weeks ago were spilling over with bright red tomatoes and vivid greens, are now a picture in monochrome–white snow on patches of wet ground, the dark fence against a grey sky. What a rich, vibrant world this is, where simply being in it and observing offers a an abundance of enlivening contrast. I marvel at the complexity and wisdom of what I know to be happening underneath the frozen landscape. The seeds and the bulbs and the sap, all lying low in this time of darkness and cold. There is no fretting, no flurry of activity, no to-do lists for what lies below. How do they know that all they have to do is wait for the sun to return and awaken them once again, that everything will unfold perfectly, however silently and unseen it is happening at the moment? How exquisitely parallel this is to the season of Advent, when we, too, are called to this place of sacred waiting, to let go, to let the light come in its own perfect time. Trust.