We have a small solstice celebration at home. We’re not pagans, but it seems that the shortest day ought to be observed. Noted. Pondered. You see, this holiday season had its earliest beginnings as solstice celebrations. Fervently praying for more light, and a bit more warmth, ancient folk of the north knew to propitiate whatever powers that be in the dark. “Please bring back our sun,” you can almost hear them sigh, in the bleak December. I’m stunned and stilled by this each year. The gradual change makes it less of a shock, but we’re living primarily in darkness now. Until today. The solstice is a turning point, an axis around which our lives turn. Forgotten ancients celebrated it and eventually Christian and other holidays gathered around it, as if coming to a campfire on a cold night. Why not stop a moment and reflect?
I’m a morning person. More extreme than most other auroraphiliacs, I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t awake for sunrise. Attempting to stay healthy, I try to get out for a morning jog before work, and that can be challenging for a guy who starts work early. I sometimes start work even earlier than usual so that I can jog once the sun shyly glances over those eastern hills. I notice the slow creep of the year. At the other end of the day, it’s dark by the time work ends. Mundane tasks such as hauling the garbage can out behind the garage can become tenebrous hikes. Others who exercise, and work, most go to the gym. I’ve tried jogging in the dark—it’s full of peril. Like the ancient pagans, I look forward to a little more light.
Progress, like lasting change, must come slowly. The earlier sun rises and later sunsets are first measured in matters of seconds, not minutes. We remain in the dark even as we hope for light. Hope pervades this time of year. We anticipate Christmas, yes, but our light-starved eyes look beyond. Beyond the chill of January into what some Celts marked as the start of spring—February. Yes, the cold can be very intense then, but rages are always their most furious before they die out. I suspect Dylan Thomas knew that when advising his dying father on how to approach the end. I’m writing this post in the dark. By dinner time the night will have already settled in. And we’ll light a candle, encouraging more to join in looking for the elusive light. Dawn always comes. Eventually it comes.
