This week carries us to the solstice and, for those of us in the northern hemisphere, the day with the greatest darkness. Also, the turning point in our gradual journey toward greater light.

Literally and metaphorically, it’s a time of contrast. Darker days, sometimes accompanied by darker headlines and events. Light-filled moments, with stunning illuminations, festivity, and moments of kind humanity.

That contrast showed up very close to home for me this weekend — starting with my Christmas tree.

Half of the lights had burned out, creating a zebra effect with some sections glowing brightly while others sat stubbornly dark. After much tinkering, the only solution was to replace the whole set, twisting and tearing off the dark lights in a determined attempt to create uniform brilliance.

At some point, I needed a break and found myself watching a few episodes of Breaking Bad, a show with equal measures, at least in the earlier seasons, of horror and humor. (Like the solstice, it got increasingly dark.). In the episodes I chose to watch, the characters still displayed both tenderness and brutality, affection and ego, often in the same scene. Just before dozing off, still on the couch, I saw the drama of light and dark that began with my tree now being played out within Walt and Jesse and Skyler.

The lesson came full circle just after midnight when I suddenly woke up, realizing Leo still needed his final walk. Quickly bundling up, mildly annoyed, we stepped outside for what I planned to be a hurried trip. Nature had other plans.

Fresh snow had fallen. Everything was hushed. Lights cast a soft glow across the walking path, each snowflake catching just enough light to sparkle. Leo lingered, pondering the powdery sensations under his paws and sniffing his lightly dusted familiar spots as if discovering them anew.

It was magical — not because the darkness was gone, but because the light met it so gracefully.

That walk offered a small teaching: