This is the longest night. We have arrived at this moment as the Wheel of the Year has turned again. Gradually, the night has grown, stretching out, getting comfortable. The word solstice comes from Latin sol for sun and stice, for standing. This etymology describes the sun standing still in the sky, resting a moment, just above the horizon, before journeying higher into the sky. Tomorrow, the darkness will begin to leave as it came, slowly, steadily, receding to make space for longer and warmer days.

We take this time, together, to pause. This is our inheritance as humans, as beings on this round orb,  that tilts and turns as it circles round its star. When we reach this point of longest darkness, we use ritual to call back, welcome the sun, and kindle our own flames while we wait. There is a deeply human impulse here, and it feels good to lean into that. It feels good to be here together to honor that.

[take a deep breath]

To be honest, speaking about the joy and wisdom found in winter’s depths is a strange task for me, someone who proudly and unquestioningly identifies as a summer baby. Born into the humid August heat of North Carolina, I’ve had trouble finding a home in these colder months at more northern latitudes. Summer is invigorating, it brings me to life, keeps me outside until late firefly dusks.

For me, winter has had to be more of an acquired taste. Right now, I am experiencing really only my third ever proper dreary grey winter, and I must confess I’m not sure I’ve got the hang of it yet. They say one of the ways to ward off the effects of the season is to get outside, you’ll get far more exposure to light outside on a cloudy day, than you will in the best-lit indoor rooms. I can know this to be true, and I can experience the visceral tension in my body when I have business that requires me to leave my safe and warm home these days. It’s a learning process.

As a newcomer, a guest to Portland and the Pacific Northwest, I often find myself striving to know this place by asking those of you who have lived here longer about your experiences of the seasons. Like, I’ve heard that recent winters haven’t been quite this wet, that the snowstorm last February was an anomaly that the city wasn’t ready for, that we could breathe a sigh of relief after this hot and hazy summer, just because the fires weren’t as bad as before.

To get to know a new place, I’ve learned to ask the locals about the seasons, about the reliable patterns, about how they manage in the difficult weather and make the most of their favorite seasons. To pay attention in this way can teach us a lot about a place, about how to love it.

When we pay attention to the seasons, and pay attention to ourselves within them, we come to realize the truth of interdependence as a basic fact of existence. Though we may have the modern conveniences of electric light and heat, the world outside is still a part of us, as we are a part of it. To make a home in this world, we must make a practice of welcoming it as it is, enjoying the gifts of each season, each cycle we face.

And, in this time of changing climate, this kind of paying attention becomes even more important, a crucial, difficult act of love. When we know ourselves to be at home in this world, to see the beauty, and the necessity of hot, cold, wet, dry, each in their own time, we are more disturbed by disruptions in these cycles. This tuning in is an important act of witnessing, of knowing ourselves to be deeply and irrevocably connected to all the beings we share this planet with.

In past winters, I have seen in myself an urge to look away. I would hurry from one place to another, head down, trying as much as I could to escape the cold, blustery day. I would make all the plans, keep a tight schedule, distract myself from my body’s need to slow down, to seek rest.

I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to be a witness, be present to all that this guest of winter brings into my life, all the ways I share this experience with other beings.

Being so awake to the newness of this seasonal experience, there is one incredible thing I’m noticing: when I allow myself, I seem to know how to spend these long drawn out evenings well. I rest, like, really rest, when I can. I cook and eat home cooked meals as often as I can. I read books, spend time with my partner and our housemates, and the cats we live with. There are few agendas except spending time together. And there is so much time for it, with nowhere else to be.

What a gift to take this time together, to make a home within the long dark, to gather together in whatever way we know how, to make this a shared home.

For those of us who struggle with this time of year, there is a way that we can know ourselves to be strong in them. When we are weary but we carry on anyway, when we find ways to make it merry and bright despite it all.

Despite the fact that winters on this planet are shifting, despite the fact that a global pandemic is disrupting our old family traditions, despite all that we have lost in this past year, we can know ourselves to be strong when we make a home in this time of darkness. When we find in ourselves a spirit of rest, of dreaming, of believing in tomorrow despite the evidence.

Solstice is about the renewal of hope, about the rebirth of the sun, and the nurturing womb of the dark that has carried it here. It is about faith that tomorrow will bring a longer light, that the sun will return to us, and also the strength that comes from knowing that we can find ourselves at home here without it. 

This is not meant to be a time of despair, but of feeling our way through together, witnessing to what comes alive in us in this time that looks like dormancy and dying back. We await the return of the sun, yes, but we also kindle flames, and build bonfires while we wait. We can know ourselves at home in the dark when we gather around the fire to tell stories, to feast, to dance.

Topics: Devotion