Waiting For the Light


January; short, dark days dragging on. Hard to go out – outwards – when the instinct is to curl up like an ammonite and wait for the light. One smoky morning in the park, it’s as if the sky has descended. Black-headed gulls, disturbed by dogs, rise from the grass and drift away, spectres of the mist.

There is a Welsh folktale called The Daughters of the Sea set in Cardigan Bay in which Dylan, the sea god calls up a fierce storm to steal three sisters away to his kingdom under the sea. When he comes to regret his action, he is unable to return the sisters as they were. So he turns them into seagulls, able to move between land and sea. When their old father walks along the beach and calls their names, three white gulls fly to him from over the waves.



Christmas, Old Town Square

In one of the decorated wooden huts in Old Town Square, I watch a woman roll out a sheet of dough and wrap it expertly around a metal stick rotating over a fire. The trdelnik, sprinkled with cinnamon and caramelized sugar as they grill, smell divine. Tourists linger near huge vats of halušky, children watch an animation of the nativity on a loop. Tomorrow I will go to the Lennon wall, and watch a couple dance to a street musician’s guitar.

Outside of the baroque church, an old man in a dusty suit restores, for a few moments, one’s faith in heaven. To pause, drawn by the plaintive wail of his saxophone, the rawness of his voice, is to forget the cold and the fact that you are in Prague alone at Christmas. You must live in your lantern, the old man seems to say.  And you see, from the twinkle in his eye that he knows.