The wind is rude at four in the morning on top of the Gay Head Cliffs. It pushes and shoves and says, if not in words then in gusts, whistles and heavy coughs, this is my turf. It is cold up there, too. A jacket doesn’t really help much. There is something about the solitude of the Cliffs on a pre-dawn morning one week before Christmas that makes the cold dig deeper, no matter the amount of layers or thickness of a hat.

But it’s not dark up there, not really. The lighthouse takes care of that, with its blink of red, followed by the long sweep of its white searchlight. It is like something from the Lord of the Rings, this tower rising up out of the dark illuminating near and far.

Looking out to sea there are the lights of the mainland, tiny compared to the lighthouse. There are also two bright lights on the water, not far away. Buoys or boats, it is difficult to tell. No matter, though. On an early morning journey with a cloudy purpose, the two lights are anchors and the heaviness feels right.

Thanksgiving is an easy holiday. A day to feast and give thanks for all that has been received. If it were a dog, Thanksgiving would be a Labrador retriever, solid, dependable and not asking for much in return. The Christmas season is much more complex. At its core it is a religious holiday, but over time it has become much more. In fact, it is a season of many religions — Hanukkah, Kwanzaa to name two more. And it is the season of the wallet, almost empty now as the day draws near. This alone can drive one away from the season as the burden of buying swallows everything in its path.

But that is not where the complexity of the season really comes from. Rather it is in its message of peace on earth and good will to all, that makes coming to the Cliffs long before dawn seem like a good idea. To read the headlines these past few months is to be confronted on a daily basis with exactly the opposite of peace and good will. Nationally and internationally the horrors keep coming at what seems like an accelerated pace. Christmas with its message of peace is an opportunity to stop and take stock of the human race, bobbing precariously it seems like a buoy or boat on the dark ocean.

But the complexity of the season is not merely related to issues, not by a long shot. For as much as it can be about standing on a cliff in the cold, feeling both small and insignificant and rather majestic and important at the same time, it is also about coming out of the cold and returning home. Down the dark curvy streets of South Road where deer amble slowly from one side to the other, past the warm glow of 7a restaurant, not open yet but busy with baking inside, past Alley’s all covered in colorful lights, past two early morning walkers with head lamps and reflector vests, through the Main streets of the down-Island towns, empty of people but not of life, and then back home to hot coffee, a couch and the rustle of familiar surroundings, perhaps children in pajamas or pets or just the quiet hum of life at its most sacred.

In this moment, the lights on the tree, candles in the window or menorah seem to take on a much deeper significance, as if each light is a memory. The lights of the season remind us of our youth and at the same time our responsibility, showing us who we were and who we want to be. They also reflect those we have loved who are no longer with us, and in this way also remind us of our own frailty.

It is a lot to wrap up and place under a tree, to be opened in a rush on Christmas morning. And it need not be this way. And yet when looking out upon the ocean from high on a cliff at the tip of this Island and feeling the tug of those two lights out at sea, it feels like a gift well worth giving and well worth receiving.

May the complexity of the season nourish and inspire you.