for the sun.
The sun rose at 8am today. It seemed to sink sometime around 4pm. The moon was out by 1pm this afternoon.
These have been dark days.
And for the first time in a long time, it is truly dark for me, literally; the light is gone. We wake in the dark and walk to get the afternoon mail delivery in the dark. For the past 11 years I have lived under a spotlight, between California and Arizona, the winter sun is strong and you have to really pay attention to see the shortening of the day. And now I live at a different latitude where I have been swallowed by a force impossible to ignore; the sun wanes. It goes away. Nothing else to it. Life revolves around it’s absent.. People retreat inside early not fighting the darkness instead they lie against it. There is a mystery surrounding people’s homes as we take an evening walk in wild wind. I sense my neighbors all sit around their fire and unconsciously wonder, like the ancients did as the days got darker and darker: Will there be light? And there was.
This is my favorite time of year. Not because my energy is at a peak or because I get things done or because I love the cold or because it makes me feel good and alive. Quite the contrary. This time of year I go so deep, so inside, like a crab I crawl and withdrawl inside my shell and wait; protected and hermit-like. I die a bit, happy to get rid of some things that I don’t need. I sleep in hope of something else, not expecting or anticipation, just knowing. The possibility of light, I suppose, whatever that word ‘light’ means. Not good or better, just different. My insides create a new path for the next cycle during this hibernation, the light on the other side just helps me walk it; a little more clearly and out in the open. This is what I like about it all. Knowing that even though I can’t see shit right now, soon things will be revealed, things that have always been there I’ll be able to see a bit more clearly. This year there is child within this dark mystery, and with the return of some daylight hours, my baby comes closer to reality. There is nothing symbolic about the Solstice and birth of newness this year. I live it tangibly.
Growing up Catholic, our life was infused with ritual; frankincense and myrrh resin burning in golden vessels, holy water held in bowls throughout the house. We chanted mantra to Mary, fingering beads until we completed each mystery. The Mother held center in the faith, through Her we could ask for grace. We had prayers for an array of saints, all representing a variety of needs from hopeless causes to lost keys. We had little altars set up everywhere. We never, ever owned a Bible. In essence, I was being schooled in paganism. As every good Catholic should know: their religion was cleverly modeled after the pagans and indigenous cultures they sought to reform.
At an early age, the face of my god could be found in a knot of a tree or in the quick shift of a weather system. I found salvation watching the dandelions turn from yellow flower to puffy seeds. My childhood was totally inconsistent inside my house, things changed on a daily basis with no meaning to me. I never knew if I should be scared or happy or if I was bad or good, no boundaries where ever defined and depending on the moods of my parents, nothing was ever the same, no rules or schedules were ever implemented to feel safe and real. But I found my own sense of peace through ritual and system; I watch the weather change with my nose pressed up against my window. I sniffed for the fallen leaves and the chimney smoke in the air. I waited for the ice to melt into water and drip its ping-ping from the storm drain onto my awning. I knew it was time to run wild in the sun and get color in my cheeks and on my nose at the first scent of grilled meat and sweet wild strawberries wafting through the neighborhood. These seasons, these shifts, are what gave me license to truly live, to grow. To feel safe and to feel protection, what lacked in my home, I got from the Earth..
Because my birthday just so happened to land on the Winter Solstice, we always celebrated that day. It was festive. It came natural to us, being bound by winter and the unconscious desire to bring in the newness were good reasons to party. My parents would hold their yearly bash for their youngest girl combined with a huge Christmas party. This day the fire was lit strong, wine bottles were emptied, shot glasses of Sambuca were clinked with the chorus of Salute! My mother’s biscotti was arranged in pretty little dishes all over the house and the cherries jubilee was aflame. There was drunken singing and ladies in funky seventies faux furs dancing in my living room. It was a party of all parties and I loved every minute of it. And because my mother always said to me, On the darkest day of the year, a light was born: You. I got the deeper meaning of the day.
And so despite my Catholic upbringing, I was well aware of what happened on the Solstice. And it was hard not to see the parallel from a very early age: The birth of The Son (Jesus) just so happened at about the same time as The Birth of The Sun. In the middle dark, the virgin midwinter Sun appeared and gave us hope; for food, for warmth, for days filled with light to guide.
And so I celebrate the Sun. I gave thanks. And as I get older and less judgmental and less righteous about my beliefs, I see no difference in a Son being born, or the Sun being born. I give thanks to both. They both deserve celebration and reverence; lighting a fire, doing a little dance, getting a little drunk, committing to love and warmth, sitting in meditation or prayer, taking a walk in the night womb right before The Great Labor begins. I will savor these moments; the last ones where I can really hide inside, curl up in the coziest (yet sometimes uncomfortable) internal ball and catch a few more moments of deep sleep and learn just a bit more about myself, embracing the ugly and the beautiful of my inner winter, my raging storm, my dark sky. And then I am invited to open up wide and catch a glimpse of what is to come, I can see it a little better with the sun on the edge of the world, that heat burning a bit flame into my sacred heart. But tonight, on the eve of the Solstice, I will stir that soup in wool socks and sweats one more time and put myself to bed right after I am done eating it. I will sit in this space and not bother to turn on more lights to keep the day going a bit longer. It is over soon. Tomorrow is a new day. The darkest day, but also the portal to an expanding light.
Here’s to what’s been so very dark. And to the precious gift of tomorrow, heres to The Sun; a light savior, indeed.
