In Western society we give ourselves assignments at the new year to make a whole new self. Unrealistic assignments, of course. Between one day and the next we're not really going to flip a switch and go from zero exercise to five days a week at the gym. If we manage that for a week we'll pay for it in aches and pains anyway.
Instead of commitment by calendar, and instead of "improvement" schemes, I'm practicing other ways of marking turning points. This year I got the book Requiem, Invitation, and Celebration: A Collection of Seasonal Practices by Emmanuel Vaughan-Lee and Lucy Wormald, from the publishers of Emergence Magazine. It's a collection of 50 practices grounded in the evolving cycle of the seasons. (More about the book in a talk by Vaughan-Lee)
The book includes "Savoring Light, for when it's the shortest day." The practice:
"Take a walk in the afternoon for as long as the light is present. Give attention only to the rhythm of your breath and footsteps until your mind softens. Take in the presence of the light. Mid-winter, how does your body instinctively savor it? As the light of day quickly becomes dusk--the light grainy, the world looking like it belongs to a roll of old film--what does the fleeting quality of the light open in you before you are lost to the dark?"
I have to say that I'm not "lost to the dark," though, as the sun slips below the horizon, our part of the globe rotating away. I'm simply in the dark, which has its own sounds and sensations. Without the darkness, the glowing lights on my neighbors' homes wouldn't gleam so brightly. Owl wouldn't fly to find food. The coyote pack that sets up a chorus each night in the nearby park wouldn't sing their laughing songs.
The globe keeps turning, and we're really always turning toward the light.
Poems and readings for this year's Solstice, with brief excerpts and links to the full pieces:
For some reason, reading it this time I realized it's actually a winter Solstice poem. Why, you ask? This line: "the darkest evening of the year."
"Solstice Poem"
Margaret Atwood
Margaret Atwood
This is the solstice, the still point
of the sun, its cusp and midnight,
of the sun, its cusp and midnight,
the year’s threshold
and unlocking
and unlocking
"Winter's Cloak"
Joyce Rupp
Joyce Rupp
This year I do not want
the dark to leave me.
I need its wrap
of silent stillness,
its cloak
of long lasting embrace.
Too much light
has pulled me away
from the chamber
of gestation.
"Winter Solstice"
Kate Belew
Kate Belew
Winter is magic
in decay, look what changes,
on the threshold of the year. Oh holy,
hinge. Step across the hearth
(earth and heart as one).
Jan Richardson
I cannot tell you
how the light comes,
but that it does.
That it will.
That it works its way
into the deepest dark
that enfolds you,
though it may seem
long ages in coming
or arrive in a shape
you did not foresee.
And so
may we this day
turn ourselves toward it.
"On the Winter Solstice"
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
And I have been waiting—
which I might have denied,
snuggled in deep as I was,
drowsy and night-drunk,
certain of my joy in the dark,
but oh, such a way to wake,
discovered by the light of a star
Brianna Kocka, in What the Winter Solstice Asks of Us, provides suggestions for how we might mark the day with rest (all seven kinds), ritual, and restorative practices.
From Starhawk's Winter Solstice Message, a reminder that this year Solstice and Hanukkah occur together, both reminders of the light, and these lines:
"And the message of Solstice, retold every year, is that just when the world grows darkest, the sun will rise again.
"We are each a little light, a small flame that needs sacred fuel to burn. Yet we can keep that flame alight, longer than we might expect, if we commit to acts of courage and compassion. On this longest night, as the Great Mother labors to bring forth the sun of the new year, we are midwives. We tend, we comfort, we empathize, we do the work. Let us bring to birth the warmth of compassion, the fire of commitment, the light of truth this year. The wheel is turning. After each night comes a new dawn."
Jennifer Hall's Lessons from the Universe essay "The Winter Solstice: Sacred Pause Before the Light Returns" reinforces the idea that we can sit with who and where we are without seeking improvement in a season of rest. She offers this invitation:
"The Winter Solstice isn’t here to rush you into the future.
It’s here to remind you that light is inevitable, even when you can’t yet see it.
Honor the pause.
Trust the dark.
Let the return of the light meet you where you are.
That’s how cycles close with grace.
And that’s how new ones begin with clarity."
Brigit Anna McNeill shares beautiful illustrations by several artists in her piece "Winter Solstice: The Long Night that Knows Our Names." She closes with this blessing:
"May this solstice meet you gently.
May it remind you that you are not late, broken, or lost.
You are wintering, as all living things must.
And somewhere beneath the quiet, the light is already on its way."
I went on a fabulous trip to England this fall with family and finally got to see Stonehenge, a lifelong dream. I couldn't go right up to it since they have it roped off. The benefit of that was that we could get pictures of the stones without people all around them. We also visited Avebury, a much larger circle although without the lintel crosspieces and much more worn, and the Rolling-Right standing stones, a small site. At Avebury and Rolling-Right we saw the remains of offerings people had left there at the equinox, just a week or two before we visited. This picture of Stonehenge isn't mine; I'm sharing it for the glow of the sunset through the stones, which people will view on the winter solstice.
When we watch the light pass, we have to remember to watch (and work) for the light to return.
