Let there be light.

They say God spoke those words at the dawn of time, and ever since the first fires cast shadows on cave walls, we humans have looked for ways to banish the dark.

Darkness can be hard to handle, whether it's the long nights of winter or the murky depths of sorrow.

It's no wonder we include light in our winter celebrations. We light candles during Hanukkah, swoop strands of lights at Christmas, shoot fireworks as the New Year begins.

I was happy to turn the page to 2013, leaving behind a year of too many goodbyes, beginning with the death of my father in January. Loss is part of life, I know, and the losses of 2012 hit hard, but they also reminded me of how blessed I am, to be here, and to have loved -- and still love -- those who are gone.

That's the light I hold onto amid the darkness.

On New Year's Eve Eve, my husband and I went out to dinner with two dear friends (a more than momentary joy). Afterward we drove around the neighborhood in search of noteworthy Christmas light displays. My favorite was a free-form creation: five strands of icicle lights, streaming down from a treetop some 30 feet high. A light wind set the strands a'swaying.

From that simple setting we headed to a house in Glenside, whose owners take a decidedly different approach to holiday lighting. Their glow is visible blocks away, and features Santa, reindeer, polar bears, a seal balancing a ball on its nose, candy canes and a chugging train. All in rainbow lights, some of them flashing. I may even have seen a unicorn.

As one of our friends put it: "Pleasantly over-the-top." 

 House by house, those lights will soon disappear. In honor of my roots, I keep ours up until at least Ukrainian Christmas (which happens to be today) and usually beyond. I feel wistful as the lights go, leaving nights a little darker. Fortunately the sun is already giving us help, setting a bit later each day, offering a glimmer of the seasonal shift ahead.

I hold onto that light, too.

It seems I am a creature of hope.

Read the pages of any newspaper and it can be easy to lose hope, easy to think that this world will never change. Newtown. Aurora. Afghanistan. Syria. The heart of darkness beats on.

And yet.

I recently came across a quote from Amma, an Indian spiritual leader also known as "the hugging saint." Among her wise words are these:

"Don't be discouraged by your incapacity to dispel darkness from the world. Light your candle and step forward."

Let there be light?

It's up to us.

Little lights add up.

I wear this close to my heart. Read on to find out why.

Shortly after I added my previous essay, I noticed that I had reached a milestone for Momentary Joy:
My 100th posting! 
I rarely play the lottery, but I do enjoy playing with numbers, though not in the strictly mathematical sense.
I even have a lucky number.
It's 13.
I suppose you could say (if you know and love weird words) that instead of triskaidekaphobia, I have triskaidekaphilia.
The Urban Dictionary describes that tongue-twisting word as "obsession with the number 13."
I'm not obsessed, just amused by how often that number turns up in my life.
For example, I was born on Friday the 13th.
The numbers in the address of my childhood home add up to 13.
The numbers in the address of the house I live in now add up to 13.
At my first newspaper job, my phone extension was 13.
At my next newspaper job, I was assigned a computer file number of 13.
Some of the 13s I chose myself:
I have worn the number 13 on my softball jersey for years, except for a few seasons when I wore 49 ... which adds up to 13.
I confess that when possible, I pick gym lockers with numbers that add up to 13.
Hmmm. Maybe that Urban Dictionary definition isn't so far off.
My very logical husband gently teases me about my … affection for the number, even suggesting that if I tried hard enough, I could find patterns in my life connecting to other numbers. Maybe, but hey, those other numbers aren't my lucky number, they're someone else's.
A recent case in point:

Abington Free Library just completed its annual Mimi Zabel Jewelry Auction.
I had never placed a bid in the silent auction, which is held through the month of November. On the auction's penultimate day (I almost never get to use that word!), I decided to take a look at the offerings.
One pin caught my eye almost immediately: a black circle with mother of pearl inlays, depicting a night sky complete with crescent moon and a shooting star.
My husband and I saw a shooting star on our first date, and we both made the same wish that night, which happily came true. (Even very logical people sometimes play with magic.) 
In short, that pin spoke to my heart.
Then I noticed the number attached to it: 85 … which adds up to 13.
I flipped open the binder to find the bids for item 85. The most recent entry was a bid for $10.
It only took me a second to decide what to bid: $13.
Apparently it was meant to be.
A few days later the phone rang. One of the Friends of the Library was calling to tell me that I had won the bidding for the pin.
Lucky me!
And, lucky 13.
---
(As I wrote this, I noticed that the number for the pin, 85, also happens to be the year we were married. I almost feel like cueing up the music for "The Twilight Zone.")

I've said it before: You're never too old to play outside. 

My husband and I enjoyed Sunday brunch recently at the Spring Mill Cafe in Conshohocken, followed by a bike ride along the Schuylkill River Trail. 

A kid at heart, he likes to make a game of our rides and hikes, often suggesting we track down something unusual along the route. Last winter, for instance, we played a game of seek-and-find with the statue of the Lenape chief along Forbidden Drive. (We played that same game in September with friends, the hunt made harder by the canopy of leaves.)

On this sunny Sunday we had a new goal: finding huge wind chimes my husband thought he had seen a while back, somewhere along the river.

"Somewhere along the river" covers quite a stretch, but we were optimistic. His instincts told him to get off the path and head down River Road. 

"Off the beaten path" is a good way to describe this less-taken road, nestled between the river and the train tracks. I got a '60s feel as we pedaled past gardens, yard art, plant-covered porches and peace signs. 

As we approached a wide green lawn leading to the riverbank, my husband spotted the chimes. There are three of them, huge indeed, hanging from tall trees in the center of the grass. An inviting hammock rests below.

Earlier he had said it might take a hurricane to make those chimes ring, and he just may be right. The light breeze that day did nothing to move those pipes, some of them over 4 feet long.

"Should we ring them?" I said, already knowing the answer to that question.

I looked around.

No fence, no sign saying "Keep out," no one else in sight.

"I'll hold your bike," my husband said.

Feeling like a mischievous kid, I ran to the first set of chimes and gently swung the wooden clapper. Low, harmonic tones sounded.

I turned to the center set  -- the Big Ben of the group -- and did the same. Even deeper tones gonged.

I set the smallest set to ringing, adding to the chorus, then ran back to my bike, feeling giddy and happy.

As we pedaled away I shouted, "Thank you!" to the unseen owners of those beautiful instruments.

I'm sure I'm not the first person to give in to that irresistible impulse; I'm also sure I won't be the last.

I may have to go back for an encore.

Phone cameras do come in handy.

One of my favorite reasons to look up in Philadelphia.

I met my husband for lunch in Center City yesterday, a more than momentary joy.

We also got to see our son, which always warms this mother's heart.

On my way back to the train station, I felt like a tourist, gazing up at skyscrapers, marveling at marble inlays, bronze sculptures, amazing stonework.

Heading home, I got a kick out of seeing my folks' house from the railroad side, zipping by the suburban back yards of my childhood.

'Twas a good day.

Four more years!
Hallelujah.

Technical note:

I have heard from several readers in recent months that they have trouble leaving comments on "Momentary Joy."

This is troubling, since part of the fun of writing a blog is hearing back from readers. It can become a virtual conversation.
The good news is that I've changed one of the settings, which should make leaving comments easier.

If you're so inspired, click on the "Comments" link at the bottom of a posting. (If you're the first to comment, the link will say "No Comments.")

Next to the words, "Comment as," choose your easiest option from the drop-down menu. 

Don't be put off by the "Name/URL" choice if you don't have a URL. In a test, it worked fine by simply adding a name, leaving the URL field blank. You can also comment anonymously.

Since I always put a link to my blog on Facebook, many of you kindly leave comments there. 

If you really want to make my day, you can become an official follower of "Momentary Joy," using the link on the bottom right. (That process is not quite as flexible as leaving a comment.)

  I appreciate all feedback, however you choose to deliver it to me!

The ghosts are back.

Thanks to Hurricane Sandy, Halloween got an extension around here.

In our town, trick-or-treating was moved to Saturday afternoon, the better to keep everyone safe from darkened streets and downed trees. Smart idea.

On Sunday, the day before Sandy struck, our house looked so barren. Anything that could be blown away we had carefully stowed inside, either in the house or the garage.

By Halloween, the winds and rain had subsided for the most part (we miraculously did not lose power), and it felt safe to venture outdoors again. At first, the only people I saw were dog walkers (necessity always calls), runners, and drivers of power trucks. Little by little, a sense of normalcy returned.

Gargoyle on guard

Remembering the season, I decided to put things back in place.

Gargoyle on the top step?

Check.

Giant spider hanging from porch ceiling?

Check.

Ghosts fluttering above railings?

Check.

Political lawn signs?

Check.

It looked like home again.

-----

Years ago I worked for newspapers, where weather stories come with the territory. (Granted, those stories aren't always as dramatic as a hurricane. You could have to call a hardware store to find out about the shortage of snow shovels in January, or air-conditioners in August.)

In the midst of one hurricane season in the newsroom, I heard this wry gem:

"What did hurricanes sound like before there were freight trains?"

(I wish I could remember who said that, so I could give the writer credit.)