It takes a few moments. But I have come to believe that the adjustment will come. When I step into the darkness, my bearings are lost. I resist walking at all, because of the inevitability of stumbling. Then a message arrives somewhere behind my cornea, and not because I was clever enough to send it. It bids the tiny muscles of my pupils to contract, letting in a greater portion of the limited supply of light. Even without transforming to a feline, I can adjust. 

 

Then it feels safe to take a step. 

 

This week the portion of illumination we are granted in the northern hemisphere will gradually increase. The instructions arrive not from some human technician, like the ones that improve a theatrical production, but from an invisible Director who knows that we have endured enough.  

 

I long for the coming of brightness. While it does not instantly bring with it the companion warmth, it foretells as much.  It births a trust that we will not only walk again, we will run.