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The weather has driven us inside.

Thunder, darkening clouds and the shortest day of the year, have called us in from day dreaming on the porch and joy riding with the sun roof open. We want to be out, but our souls, nature and the house, with her soft lights, warm wood and newly ignited heater want us in. They want us drawn up under blankets, playing cards by candlelight, reflecting, reminiscing, taking stock and giving thanks.

It is during the “taking stock” part of this decree that I make the discovery.

“Did you know we have FOUR sets of dishes?” I ask my husband. He arches an eyebrow and goes back to his puzzle.

It’s true. We do. It’s one of those things that you “know” but don’t acknowledge.

As a young adult I was content to eat all of my meals out of the same bowl while sitting cross legged on the kitchen counter. Cereal. Ramen. Chinese Left Overs. It was my “bohemian” phase and most meals were consumed while discussing art, literature and the meaning of life with near strangers who showed up to my shared townhouse in California after the restaurant we all worked at closed for the night.

I was proud of my one bowl. Proud of my ability to pack up and move on with very little effort. Proud of my light footprint and ability to disentangle. Proud of my non attachment to people and material things.

Then I had a child.

Having a child was the most “adult” thing I had ever done.

The second most “adult” thing I ever did was buy dishes.

Dishes say “We are civilized human beings. We do not eat our young.”

Dishes say “Ritual. Stability”

Dishes say “We are formally a family.”

Dishes say “Even if it is just fish sticks from the freezer section of the store, we are going to sit together and pretend to be fancy and talk about our day.”

Dishes say “I am here for the long run. I can’t run away because it is too much time and effort to pack all of those soup bowls and mugs and lunch plates and dinner plates between layers of packing paper and into corrugated cardboard boxes.”

Dishes say “Even if I managed to pack up all of those plates and bowls correctly, I would have to maintain a civilized speed to avoid breaking any and would forget why I was angry by the time I reached the city limits sign and would turn around and come home in time to unpack them and have breakfast.

Dishes are commitment.

Dishes are what my mother set out for every meal, every day while we were growing up.

Dishes, and all they represent, are what I wanted to give to my son, my eventual husband, and myself.

Dishes became a big deal to me and now I have four sets.

I am trying to live by the philosophy that if you no longer use something, if it no longer serves a purpose, it has to go and I desperately want to keep my dishes.

“We will have a set of dishes for every season” I tell my husband who raises both his eyebrows and shrugs.

Yes. Four sets of dishes. Fours seasons. This, to me, seems right.

I spend the better part of the afternoon, while the low light turns to dark, washing the yellow/gold “autumn” dishes we have been using and swapping them out for the red “winter” dishes we will use until spring.

I run the lunch dishes, dinner plates, mugs and bowls under hot, soapy water while thinking and silently giving thanks.

I think about my mother, gone two years, who made every meal special with the beautiful table she set no matter the occasion. I think about her mother before her who did the same. I think about my son, married just over a week, and the dishes he and his new wife received for their wedding. I think about the conversations, arguments, and resolutions those dishes will be privy to over the course of a marriage.

Dishes tell the story of a family.

Every meal.

Every chip. Every crack. Every solid plate and broken bowl.

I feel the weight and contour of each piece and I give silent thanks as towel dry them and move them to the storage cabinet.

I thank them for grounding me to the here and now.

I thank them for always being full.

I thank them for giving weight and formality to a simple meal enjoyed across the table from my husband.

It seems fitting, that on this day acknowledging the the longest hours of darkness, the rebirth of the sun, I feel myself most connected to those who came before me, and those who will follow after.

It seems fitting that on this darkest day, I am finally starting to see the light.