We are approaching a moment of great meaning to me - the winter solstice. The day of ultimate darkness. The liminal moment that begins renewal and the reappearance of light. The sun standing still.
Many of the world’s religions orient belief and practice around the solstice because it is the bedrock of human experience since the beginning. Candles for Hanukkah. Christmas tree lights. White lights looping below the edges of my windows. Light to show the way out of the darkness.
For me, I think, this moment has taken on even greater meaning as I age. Because darkness is closer with age. The Buddhist Five Remembrances, the buried fears we all bring carry become more compelling. My paraphrasing:
I will grow old; there is no escaping growing old.
I will become sick; there is no escaping being sick.
I will die; there is no escaping death
All that is dear to me will change and disappear; there is no escaping that loss
My actions are my only belongings; I cannot escape the consequences of my actions.
There is no reason for sadness in the face of these truths; they are just truths. Knowing them liberates joy in life. A celebration of light; joy for and to the world; to people close and far; friend and foe. Joy elicits more joy.
So tune into George Winston’s December. Read aloud some winter poetry, even when it is 70 and sunny outside. Like “White Eyes” by that most marvelous of poets of the natural world, Mary Oliver:
White-Eyes
In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.
I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—
which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.
Source: Poetry (Poetry Foundation, 2002)
Or hold that silence for a while and let Pablo Neruda speak into it:
Keeping Quiet
Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still
for once on the face of the earth,
let's not speak in any language;
let's stop for a second,
and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.
Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands.
Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.
What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about...
If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with
death.
Now I'll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.
Source: Extravagaria : A Bilingual Edition
by Pablo Neruda (Author), Alastair Reid (Translator)
Noonday Press; Bilingual edition (January 2001)
Or think of those who consume their Solstice dark/light in the company of one:
Solo, with age
Sunrise;
or is it already ten?
Crumpled grey sweatpants
on the bed.
Who is that unshaven
uncombed head
in the mirror?
Take something from the rack
of abandoned sport coats
creased dress trousers,
wild ties no one sees?
Where are your glasses,
your keys,
your damn hearing aids
scarpered with their errant batteries?
Shake pills from blue plastic rectangles
Into your cupped palm;
morning capsules
(evening ones later)
taken with food.
Ah, food…
One egg in the carton,
mottled cheese,
limp carrot,
half a tin of skipjack tuna,
chocolate – you musn’t,
croissant = carbs.
Tiramisu last night
Was a mistake.
Is tea food?
Find the To Do list,
a half sheet torn
from a ruled pad:
berries, romaine
hand sanitizer,
laundry,
light bulbs,
thanks to Frank
for the Lumineers ticket.
Hours reach out
like an empty desert highway.
Now you can tell anyone
what you think,
work as hard as you ever did,
or not.
If you don’t leave the house
will anyone notice?
Source: Gordon Adams
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Then light your lights, put on Au Clair de Lune, lift a glass and wish everyone around the world a joyful and reflective winter solstice.
J'aime beaucoup ce texte sur les solstices, sur la lumière. J'y suis sensible étant née en février, à une époque où la lumière revient. Il y a aussi la fête des lumières dans les pays nordiques à la Sainte Lucie (13/12), la Saint-Jean en France au solstice d'été... Quel magnifique poème de Pablo Neruda "Rester silencieux"... et que j'aimerais que quelqu'un le lise à mon enterrement !
"...Si nous n’avons pu être unanime
en maintenant nos vies en mouvement,
peut-être que ne rien faire une fois,
peut-être qu’un grand silence peut
interrompre cette tristesse,
cette incompréhension permanente
et ces menaces de mort,
peut-être que la terre nous enseignera
alors que tout semble mort
et que tout était vivant.
Maintenant, je compte jusqu’à douze
et tu te tais et je pars".
Magnifique ! Et un grand merci pour ton poème, très cher ami.
On poète de qualité. Il fault queen tu le lis.