Return of the light

Every year, I approach our solstice service the same way--with a season's full of weariness. I must practically force myself to go to the service, which is always at night and seemingly always occurring around the same time as my cold weather anemia sets in. (Not actual anemia--that I know of--but I feel bone tired, blood tired.) And then comes the renewal that I swear will not occur this year. I am always too far gone, I think. And invariably, my mojo returns after one hour in a dark sanctuary. How is this possible? The service was beautiful last night. Conducted mostly in the dark, it featured music, poetry reading, and dance. The music was curative: Native American Flute, bagpipes, vocalists with guitar or handbells, and drumming. Absolutely calming, rhythmic, and meditative. Perfect way to kick off a week of happenings and interactions with loved ones.

This is my poem, the welcoming of the light, that I read after dancers illuminated the sanctuary with candlelight to symbolize the sun's return. Happy Solstice to all. Whatever else you celebrate this season, may you find the light you seek.


From the ebony yawn of night,
The collective void that is our complacency,
We wait for a prophet—not to redeem us
But to show us who we really are.
The darkness softens,
And our awareness shifts to thoughts of hope.
Can this night, gone from ink to velvet in a heartbeat
Bring us comfort after all?
Ah, but consolation is not the sky’s intent.

A golden cord appears on the horizon
Where previously no distinction lay.
An axis of expectation,
The long finger of light beckons us unto ourselves.
We look down, and in the pink and purplely dim
We see the outline of our own flesh.
Arm, breast, thigh, foot.
They appear before us: parts of the whole.
We remember our designations,
And say our names, first silently to ourselves,
Then aloud to our neighbors
Whose figures we can now see.
Hearing the sweet chorus, we realize
We are not alone on our watch.

Orange now. Persimmon.
The heavens beseech us to turn our gazes upward
To the tinted ripples of dawn.
The colors convulse.
Contractions.
Birth.
We are the midwives.
Waiting for the crowning of the golden orb.
But it is our own coronation that awaits us
With a vision of what we can be--
A vision of what we can be together.

Yellow wonder.
The eye rises into plain view.
Intensity beyond our ability to measure.
We cannot look at the star directly
So we turn and view its golden reflection
As it bounces off the faces
Of those who are gathered.
Each countenance shines,
Bronzed by the light of potential.

Welcome Sun!
Welcome Possibility!

Meditation on Darkness

Our church has its annual Winter solstice service tonight. I am looking forward to it. It is always a moment of calm before the storm of activity that is our holiday. Three extended family celebrations, two family birthdays, and at least two celebrations with friends. Tonight I am participating in the service as I have in the past. (Some years, I just sit quietly and enjoy the service.) This year I am reading two meditations that I was asked to write for this service. This first one is a meditation on the darkness. I will upload the Welcome Sun meditation tomorrow. Happy Winter Solstice.

Where does color go in the dark?
The verdant splendor of spring grass.
The unabashed purple of a lilac summoning insects to her party.
The poetic hue of autumn’s harvest that can only be self-described as pumpkin orange.
And the blue of a sky that hovers near-kiss above treetops, themselves an ever-changing spectrum.
Meditation on a traffic light, the maples and oaks seem to say. . .
Before that light goes out, and we are left without guide,
Without god.

This is not a sudden power outage
But a subtlety that has caught even the most aware of us off guard.
We sit here in the dark, at the intersection of our lives.
Deprived of navigation
Waiting in fear.
Deceived into thinking we are alone.

We do not know that guide and god, color and light
Are hibernating in caves within us.
Our winter eyes are solstice blind.
Sightless but seeking, our other senses rebound.
We finally notice the heartbeat.
Its call will lead us inside
To commune with all we thought lost.

The next round of holidays

We did go out and shop yesterday. Mark wanted to get out of the house. And we did get the teensiest bit of holiday shopping done. Trying not to get stressed out by it. It isn't the shopping that gets to me so much as the worthlessness. We seem to get the same stuff for people year after year and it is hard to get excited by it all. Our kids have so many possessions that it is an effort to buy for them. They don't even know what to want, and in order to store it, they have to have a big purge every year right before they get new gear.
It sounds terrible, but I'd just like to cancel it some year and take a breather on a warm beach or a cabin in the woods with just Mark and the kids. I could do the world more good by peaceful meditation and journaling. Observe the natural world--the solstice. Breathe with the darkness. Watch the sunrise. Chant something. Beat drums. Welcome the light. Offer gratitude. Listen to my daughter play sax. Play games. Sit by a fire (or by the surf, depending on where we were). Maybe we'd perform some sort of community service before we left. Something as a family to give back to the larger world. It seems so simple--doesn't it? Why do we allow ourselves to get carried away by tradition and commercialism?
Today I am thankful for the traditions that do have meaning to me. The solstice service at church. Our tree. It is decorated with ornaments that commemorate memories--places we've been, stages of childhood, our pets. I do enjoy holiday music--all kinds and all traditions. And hearing from faraway friends. I especially like the photographs and long juicy letters that tell what every body's been doing over the course of their year. And I enjoy the fresh start that a new year affords us. A great time to ponder life's mysteries.