in awe of winter solstice & the invitation to rest
i need winter. how about you?
hello solstice sojourners,
today the predawn morning was veiled in fog, hiding Venus, who has been sparkling in the sw night sky this month. as Sun began ascending, ribbons of persimmon layered beneath the fog and awe washed over me as “good morning” colors moved in, awakening Bushits, Dark-eyes Juncos, Robins, and, or course, Crows. as the fog lifted, this solstice day announced it would be clear and cool.
it has been perhaps a decade since i have consciously begun marking the winter solstice, though i remember being in my 20’s and hearing a banefully sung rendition of Victorian writer/poet Christina Rossetti’s “In The Bleak Mid-winter” and loved it (and that, i suppose, explains a lot about me.)
In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.
(first verse)
we often say this day (december 21st, depending on where you land in timezones) is the “start of winter,” but on the Celtic calendar winter began six weeks ago. with our topsy-turvy climate it might be up for grabs when winter or any season begins or ends. for me “winter” is when i start wearing my sweaters. fortunately Sun and Earth have their cosmic dance, and solstices and equinoxes are reliable ritual markers.
my childhood memories of winter center around a century old farmhouse that moaned when the wind blew. my second-story bedroom welcomed those winter winds through ample cracks and the red plastic water bottle did not warm me through the night. spring’s warming ways could not come soon enough. winter also called my father to cross behind the veil when i was in my 20’s, so my early relationship with winter was distant.
so how do i mark this day? this season? aging has opened me to winter in new ways. an understanding that slowing down and resting is a biological/ecological imperative as well as spiritual. the wisdom of the plants and other beings is vast. the rotting leaves and decay of plants and animals are an essential part of preparing for spring. for renewal. death doesn’t mean everything has stopped, but transformation is taking place, often at mirco-levels. below ground the soil is holding space for gestation. tendrils of roots are reaching toward one another. it is a slow slow slow slow process. and it doesn’t look “productive” from above ground. thank goodness it doesn’t look productive. nature doesn’t measure its unfolding in productivity…and neither should i, or we.
how do i mark this day? this season? i listen. i listen deep to my own desire to rest. i notice the gifts of bare red branches and purple berries…color sparks amid barren landscapes, that are anything but barren (perception, right?) i allow the tendrils of my own roots to rest in the soil so i can gestate what needs to be nurtured within. i listen to where my prayers need to go, for deep rest and sheltering doesn’t mean not caring about the world or tending to the needs of others, as this new poem by poet Tracy K. Smith that was recently sent out by Poets.Org reminds me:
[The will to see oneself as fragile]
1972 –
The will to see oneself as
fragile, fallible,
liable to fail.
To consider a stranger and
hear, in the mind’s ear,
one’s true voice
insisting: I must change.
Ordinary people do this
Patient urgent work
alone and together
day upon day upon day.
Like my mother, once,
leading her ailing mother
back through the maze
of our suburban scrawl,
past ache, past haze,
past confusion and rage
toward a neat room
where waited prayer,
fear, forgiveness,
grief, grace. This
is a poem about kin
and neighbors and nations
adrift, in error, under siege.
This is a ceasefire poem.
it has been a busy autumn full of expansive learning. it needs time to gestate. i need winter. how about you? what does winter mean to you?
so a short ponder this week as i’ve been prepareing for this solstice event, Layers of Community, Layers of Grief: a longest night ritual where Grief is invited and welcomed into the room. collaborating with others who appreciate the gift of grieving in community. i’ll be tending the labyrinth. if you live in the portland, oregon metro area and see this before 6pm PT, head over to my Nurture Your Journey FB page for details if you would like to attend.
to close i’ll offer a solstice blessing by Pádraig Ó Tuama, the host of Poetry Unbound.
Solstice Blessing
by Pádraig Ó Tuama
As night stretches here,
day contracts elsewhere.
And in their night, we are
bathed in light. In all nights
there is light; in long days
there can be ache too.
For you, we call the sun
to stand still a while, and
the moon too, and the stars, and
the waters and the heavens.
Hells as well — just for a
second; just for a breath.
May that breath rest you.
And may each breath rest you,
as it has until now, and now
and now. this one, after
that one, after that one after
that.
may your winter be filled with wonder and rest,
anne
Beautiful reflections after a run of late December rain. Thank you for your work.