Winter solstice sunrise, Montreal
We don't have to be pagans to feel, deep in our bones, that something has culminated today, and then, slowly, will begin to swing back in the other direction. In spite of all our protective armors of clothing, our central heating and reliable hot water, our automobiles and all the other conveyances that keep us moving comfortably in every kind of weather, and the technologies that manage to distract us from a more primal awareness, we are animals of this earth and this solar system, and we feel the changes in our bodies and spirits whether we acknowledge them consciously or not.
Today in Montreal, we had just 8:42 hours of daylight. That's not much. Unlike most of the previous week, which has been grey and overcast, today dawned bright and absolutely clear. I got up at sunrise -- not difficult, since it came at 7:33 -- and saw the sunlight hitting the buildings next to us, and the tall towers far in the distance. It was also very cold today, -9 degrees Celsius, and that sun felt very far away.
I always think of the sun, at solstice, as a traveler who's gone all the way down to Patagonia, and is lingering in Tierra del Fuego, before starting his long journey back north. Of course the sun hasn't actually gone anywhere, but it still feels that way. We could mark his path on our windows (I use the masculine pronoun because of Apollo, the Greek Sun God, probably) and it would be a long arc to the far points at the winter and summer solstices. But rather than the astronomical side of this long period of apparent movement, I'm more interested in how it affects us, and the ways we've devised to forget our deep connection to the seasons, the waxing and waning of natural phenomena, the planting and growing and harvesting times, and the long period of hibernation, quiet, resting -- and yes, danger -- that winter once represented.
I've just re-read the first book in John Berger's trilogy, "Into Their Labours," which is called Pig Earth. Berger shows us the lives of peasants in the French Alps -- people who are close to the earth, whose lives depend on understanding it. It's harsh, even shocking, to read about the annual slaughtering of cows and pigs, to hear of women whose only income comes from foraging mushrooms and mistletoe and anything else they can find, to sell to city dwellers, as the seasons pass. Much of it is shocking to our 21st century sensibilities, but how far are we really removed from it? There are subsistence farmers still, in the valley where I grew up, and there are plenty here in Quebec. Another series our book group read recently deals with life on a remote island off the coast of Norway, relentlessly exposed to the North Sea, the bitter winds and storms, the luck of the fishermen or lack of it, the attempt to augment one's income from cod with the sale of eiderduck down and gathered wild bird eggs, the dangers of accidents and failed harvests and dried-up wells, the great precarity of every single winter. Factory farming and fishing have done away with some of this way of life, but not all, and shouldn't we know something about it rather than being cocooned in our urban and suburban comfort and convenience?
Here, even in this northern city which gets plenty of snow, ice, and bitter cold, most of us have so much protection. We have our heated apartments, hot water on demand, and plenty of food -- which can be delivered, already prepared, to one's door if you really want. We walk short distances and descend into the tunnels of the heated metro, which whisks us to our destinations, many of which are also connected underground. Whether we complain about the weather or thrive in it, only the sans abri, the homeless people of the city, are exposed to the elements in truly life-threatening ways. How many of us consider whether we could survive if we had to sleep outside for even one night? Strawberries, oranges, pomegranates and persimmons, figs and dates, are piled in the markets for our holiday consumption, without us having to give a thought to where they came from. It is all...completely unnatural.
At the lake, last week, flocks of Canada geese slept on the water every night, leaving in the mornings to go feed in the cornfields and then return around sunset. It was a predictable pattern. But one night, toward the end of our stay, I heard a commotion among them in the late afternoon. At least half of the flocks swam into the center of the lake and then took off. The sun went down, but in the morning, they hadn't returned -- and they never did. What had they sensed? The weather wasn't a lot colder, and the snow that had fallen earlier in the week was all gone. There was no ice on the lake yet. No humans or other predators had spooked them. It was just -- apparently-- time to move on.
I'm so much more comfortable when I can witness these natural events that remind me who I am in the world. I like to be able to see the night sky, the winter constellations, the positions of the planets. I like to feel the cold on my face, and be able to see my breath; I like to make stews out of root vegetables and to bake bread. I'm old enough to remember when we didn't have a choice but to eat seasonally, and how that made sense. I enjoyed growing food in the summer, and preserving some of it for use in the winter. Of course, like so many other people, we buy strawberries in February now, and anything else that attracts us in the markets unless it's ridiculously expensive. Still, I don't want to forget who I am as an animal, a hunter-gatherer, a creature made mostly of water who can freeze quickly.
For us in the north, there is a long haul yet to go, even if this night is technically mid-winter from a solar perspective. But the days will start to lengthen, and we'll feel differently as a result; we'll know the sun has started his trek back to us.
Tonight I'm going to put on my heavy coat and hat and stand on the balcony for a little while, looking at the night sky. Even though there are city lights here, we can see stars and planets, far more faintly than in the countryside, but fairly well on a clear night like this. The stars always pierce my illusions of knowing much of anything, of being powerful or of any lasting importance. Frankly, I like that. When I sense how short and insignificant my life is, my love for everything becomes even more intense and precious. We all ought to be humble, and of course we aren't, because most of us live in a delusion, but the stars, especially in winter, remind me to be kind and to forgive others and myself for all the ways we forget who we are. This clear solstice night is a good time to go out and feel that once again.
Hi Beth,
Such thoughtful and graceful writing.
We got the book, it is lovely and I should have time to read it slowly, by the fire.
Big life changes here and we are adjusting as the future unfolds.
Posted by: Sharyn | December 23, 2023 at 10:13 AM