Every year I forget. Forget the pain, forget I am in exile. Forget the reality that my fibers are made of dust. Stardust. Winter comes through Advent and even when I forget the Stations of the Cross that appear in foreshadows in those purple candles round the wreath, I ache for spring, for death. Even in the balmy tropics where I live my heart grows dormant once a year. And even though the tinsel may spread thick, the holly and the ivy call, the roasted nutmeg and rummy eggnog fulfill my mythology that all is good…the evergreen dies. But as in Narnia, the White Witch’s power is not greater than the Lion’s Sacrifice and so through the dead of winter that begins when the bright wrappings cease, my heart–encased in yesterday’s seedpod–waits for spring rain, soft earth, and the intuition to sprout. For it isn’t winter or even Father Christmas that I long, but resurrection, redemption and the chance to see the stone turned that I might shine, a star, in the heavens once more.