On our way home from lunch today, we passed a church being built. My four-year-old-sage-of-life son asked, “Mom, God’s in there, right?” As I opened my mouth to tackle this question, he followed up with a quick, ” ‘Cause He’s there and in the other one, too, so He’s in two places at once, and how does that happen?”
Ok. Where’s my mom when I need her?
My response: “Well, He’s so big that He can be in all of the churches all at once.”
Immediately, God turned into a superhero. “Oh!” my son went on, “I get it! He’s so big that he shoots out little Gods and they go everywhere!”
Interesting, I thought. “So…He’s like sunshine? There’s one great big sun and it shoots its sunlight out everywhere to take care of everything?”
He agreed. I love his little big mind.
This turned into a fascinating conversation of light and dark, and how even though there are times when we don’t have the sun directly, we have it indirectly in the light of the moon and stars and the reflection of the sun. (We didn’t get into the large balls of gas, because this was a pleasant conversation with my preschooler that for once, was not about gas.)
When he asked why we aren’t able to see the stars during the day, I paused. Sometimes, you need the dark to see, I said.
Sometimes…you need the dark to see.
We’re emerging from our shortened days of the dead of winter. That time of year of introspection, tucking in, being quiet. On these very crisp evenings and cold nights, there doesn’t seem to be anything between me and those stars and that moon; it looks as though I could reach up and pull them down from the sky. It makes me feel really big and important but very small and insignificant all at once. I remember a few years ago getting up at 2 a.m. to climb Long’s Peak, and about two hours into the hike, I looked up and sat down hard. I had never seen so many stars. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. There were so many of them I wondered how they stayed up there without crushing me down here. And then, within an hour or so, they faded away and disappeared, the presence of them gobbled up by all of that sunshine.
Even in our darkest night, there’s light waiting to burst through. It’s waiting, reflecting, combusting. My yoga practice is teaching me this patiently. My cranky back is beginning to welcome backbends again and an intense twist to the right happens more freely. And as this unfolds, my heart center is urdhva mukha-ing (you know, not just upward facing but even lifting toward my top palate!). Those little pinholes of starlight are sure to give way to full sunshine soon, I can just feel it.
And I’m so, so very thankful.
How are you shining?
My 
I’m reading, well re-reading actually, a trilogy about three sisters from Ireland. The stories are by no means a literary work of genius: they are simple works of fiction and stories of being found by love. (Go figure, my favorite movies are chick flicks as well. Sue me.)
As I googled images for “joy” recently, there were myriad photos of older folks laughing, loving, and living fully. It reminded me of the hallway in the 
I am always amazed at how lessons in life happen. While they seem like subtle nudges if I look at each of them individually, I get a lot of nudges in a short period of time. Something way bigger than me is making sure that I don’t miss the signs.
This is one of my favorite quotes from the movie, “The Lion King.” As one who frequently mashes up quotes, cliches, and song lyrics, I feel a kindredness with that little warthog. Bless him.
