Solstice. At 7 am, I rise in near-darkness and go into the front room. I open the louvered blinds, and peer out, to the south, at an overcast, dim morning. The weak and greyish light reminds me of the day three months ago when we landed in Reykjavik, where it is now dark all day long. Here, inside the room with me, is a green spruce tree, bare except for hundreds of sparkling tiny lights that have been glowing all night long. I close my eyes and smell its fragrance, and open them to see again its incongruous beauty.
Yesterday, though, was clear, and in the early morning I watched the sun itself trace a low arc behind the trees. I left the house at 1 pm, wanting to do my shopping in the brightest part of the day, but even so, walking down boulevard St-Denis, I could only feel a faint warmth on my face. It’s no wonder we in the north feel bereft now, forgotten.
In spite of science, all my life I’ve thought of the sun as the wanderer. He begins to leaves us in August, becoming as neglectful as a distracted lover, and travels south to where he is right now – Patagonia perhaps – standing on a mountain peak gazing toward Antarctica. Later today he’ll slowly come down the path he climbed, pack his things, and once again turn his face toward the north.
Northern pagan people spent these weeks in anticipation, and celebrated the solstice with joy. Because the sun seems to stand still at solstice, the Roman astronomers waited for a few days before definitively declaring its return journey; therefore they placed the date of Christ’s birth on December 25. The clever placement of Christmas, a few days past solstice, conflated the new religion with the existing festival.
Oriens, the Latin word for East, also became the morning star – Venus when seen at dawn — the dayspring, dawn of heaven, even the rising sun itself, and these became epithets for Christ. For weeks we’ve been singing O Dayspring from on high appear, and calling on the brightest and best of the sons of the morning to dawn on our darkness and send us his aid. Christ died and left us, goes the theology, but he returns at Christmas to renew us, and will eventually come again to reign.
I’ve been even less enthusiastic than usual about Advent this year. Anticipation, yes; bringing life and light inside our cold, dark homes, yes — but focusing on my own unpreparedness, forgetfulness, sins and weaknesses, no. Only western Christianity would create a penitential season at a time when people are already depressed and starved for light. But I’m not a pagan, for all my love of the natural world, and my awareness of the way its rhythm beats in my heart, and always has.
What do I believe then, what do I believe? Not in Christ’s return, except metaphorically. I believe in now, and so, I think, did he. I know from experience that times of obscurity are often followed by insight, darkness by light, and that the two are necessary for each other, but that wisdom comes from being observant to this very moment: the weak light, the clarity of ice. Today that paper-thin edge of duality — that single but two-sided coin — turns its face, but neither one is better than the other. I believe in long journeys, the persistence of love, and the value of endurance: my face in the stinging cold, my feet that want to slip on the ice but find their balance, the sun’s eventual return.
Wisdom comes from being observant to this very moment: yes. So much.
Love and light to you.
Posted by: Rachel Barenblat | December 21, 2011 at 06:05 PM
Sorry not to say anything intelligent, but I'm SO GLAD that the winter solstice will be over (in Britain, 22nd December, 5.30 am - I looked it up!) Thank God we'll start to get out of that dark tunnel. By about 6 January the evenings start to get lighter more quickly every week, and colours suddenly become more vibrant.
All very best wishes to you for the New Year!
Posted by: Vivien | December 21, 2011 at 06:30 PM
Beautiful thoughts. Thank you and Happy Solstice!
Posted by: rouchswalwe | December 21, 2011 at 06:52 PM
Thankful for expressions of light. Yours, a beacon.
Posted by: Deb | December 21, 2011 at 09:12 PM
"...Today that paper-thin edge of duality — that single but two-sided coin — turns its face, but neither one is better than the other. I believe in long journeys, the persistence of love, and the value of endurance: my face in the stinging cold, my feet that want to slip on the ice but find their balance, the sun’s eventual return."
Lovely, and I especially understand the ambivalence that exists in the natural world, which favors neither dark nor light but simply is, and how in this post the two worlds (natural and spiritual) stand side-by-side. Thank you.
Posted by: Seon Joon | December 22, 2011 at 01:03 AM
Gosh Beth I came to your meditation as I was about to fold up the copies of my own Christmas letter a sort of annual report on the year... in the style of some I receive, so all of it about me and none of it as honest and self-sharing as your words here. The dark season is a time to go into the experience of incapacity and loss as well as to discover what hope remains. It's not a sadistic twist that the tradition of fasting during such times (think of Good Friday) arose, but a wise sense that to mask the discomfort is to thwart the awareness. But I have been baking too, and have not muzzled the ox...
Posted by: Vivian | December 22, 2011 at 05:37 AM
I think the holidays were created to keep us busy so we get through these darkest days. I get on the weather sites and count how many minutes of light are added after Dec 21st. We're snow free and warm here right now (about 45 F) with a warm eerie wind blowing. Being snow free makes life easier but the snow makes our winter world lighter. And we could ski so it's a toss up. The alpine areas are making snow but my friends who run the cross country center are gloomy. The Christmas vacation week is a third of their income so no snow is tough on them. Last night we had freezing rain so himself was out on five ambulance runs in as many hours. 4 car accidents and one very bad slip and fall on the ice accident. He was exhausted.
We're both been sick with a viscous cold that is probably more like a virus so we need that peaceful week between Christmas and New Years. After Jan 1, our clients start calling. We will have a quiet Christmas dinner with our elderly parents right here.
I'd like to just stay in bed with books and cats.
Posted by: zuleme | December 22, 2011 at 10:03 AM
I'm so glad that the days are now going to be getting longer. I find the darkness tiring, and I seem to want to rest and go slowly just when the hurly burly is at its peak.
Posted by: Lilian Nattel | December 22, 2011 at 07:12 PM
nice post and there is wisdom in the last paragraph.Just finished a stressful and challenging week where everything in fact turned out astonishingly well so its easy to see obscurity and darkness turning to light.Much harder to see that when you get pummeled instead.I hope this christmas again there will be a book list,perhaps some commentary from you about them
Posted by: john | December 23, 2011 at 08:09 PM
Beth, I read your blog every day, but rarely comment. I just leave refreshed.
But I wanted to comment to tell you that for a few years, maybe six or seven, I have not been in the rhythm of Advent. When the middle comes, my wreath and candles and "progressive" calendar are still on a shelf in a closet, and I tell myself next year I'll get it right.
I can't say for sure why or how it matters, but Advent seems too squished right after Thanksgiving, and like you, I live in a place lacking sun and warmth this time of year.
Kate, in eastern central NY
Posted by: Kate | December 24, 2011 at 08:27 AM