No matter where I have lived in the U.S. (virtually always the northern tier of states), the day after daylight saving time ends in the autumn is the hardest day of the year. Yes, you gain an hour's sleep the night before, and that lovely earlier sunrise is wonderful. But, ugh, the early 4:30-ish onset of sunset and night always comes as a shock. It's always a Sunday, so nine times out of ten you are simply home, getting ready to make dinner, about to watch some Sunday night public television shows. But by 8 PM, it feels like midnight.
As a woman increasingly clued into the divine feminine, I feel like I should welcome the darkness. I don't fear it, and I don't think I suffer from seasonal affective disorder. But there is a suddenness to the early November change that, coupled with anticipation of upcoming months of snow and ice, feels heavy, poignant, even a little scary. Last night's sunset was a brilliant red, almost as if the Universe was trying to soften the blow with a stunning display of beauty. I was grateful. But it's really winter now.
