Key XIX The Sun
I drew The Sun card here at the end of October, when our sun—Earth’s own Star—is traveling low in the Northern Hemisphere sky. We’re heading toward the season of hibernation. This isn’t the time for the Sun to shine bright, not when autumn shadows soften the edges of summer. It’s not a reversal of the Sun, mind you, but a modification, a different aspect. This is a time for soft blankets and gently drifting leaves, for hot soup and warm spices. The harsh masculine energy of the Sun recedes, and the softer feminine comes to power.
For the past few years I’ve been running on Sun fuel. Life took the reins—not in a good way—and that relentless Sun power kept me going. At the same time, I was engaged in writing projects that demanded blade-like attention. If you enjoy a little ayurveda, you’ll understand that I’ve been controlled by Pitta. It got me through some challenges, but it also burned up my reserves. As the first signs of calming Sun came around, I realized I needed a break from the sort of honed writing I’d been working on. I needed to write kinder, gentler words. I needed comfort writing.
What is comfort writing and how do I do it?
How do I write comfort? How can I represent warmth and welcome in my words while the Sun is in shadow? How am I writing the Shadow?
You know about comfort viewing (“Murder, She Wrote” and “Hallmark Christmas Movies”). You know about comfort foods (Potato Soup—shout out to Sharan Newman for sending me the Irish Potato Cookbook). You’ve got your comfort reads (mine are Mary Stewart and Sarah Orne Jewett). Please allow me to introduce you to Comfort Writing.
Comfort Writing is just like that—it’s cozy and soft and pleasant. It doesn’t have to blaze and blind to emit warmth. There’s no struggling with plot or structure. No need to worry about too many adverbs or not enough words or with making sense. Just let the writing be what it is.
Here’s one of the pieces of comfort writing that came to me recently.
A Small Town Witch Teaches the Fine Art of Sorcery
No one listens to what she doesn’t say. That’s her art—the tacit spell. She can curse anyone without a word spoken, and this serves her well. Her specialty is justice, the distribution of retribution. Take the neighbor on the corner, the one who revs his monstrous truck’s engine when decent people are asleep, or should be. Tires go flat, fluids leak, belts fly off. No reason. Just happens.
She’ll tell you if you really want to know. You don’t, but she would. The secret of sorcery lies in plain sight, ripples with gooseflesh on bare arms or quivering chin in the bumpy night. Her life is a how-to manual, complete in two sentences: Smile them on their way. Trust karma to do the heavy lifting.
It’s comforting to know that we can be loving and compassionate all the time, even in the noon of a summer day, but now is a fine time to practice that. Let us trade our sharp edges and implements for the velvet touch of kindness.
One Good Thing
Kindness costs you nothing.
