winter solstice

Reflections on the shortest days and longest nights. 

I find comfort in winter solstice and the pause that the year-end brings. While I seek to be present at this time of year, I always wonder, where will I - where will we - be a year from now? My mind wants to act, but during midwinter, it’s important to sit with these thoughts as they arise. Reflection, not action.

While winter solstice is grounding, I still catch myself dreaming of solar energy in December. And, in the past, I’ve swapped a grey and wet winter solstice in London for a second summer solstice in the Southern Hemisphere, among the blues and yellows of Sydney, Australia in December. However, I have, now, come to embrace winter solstice and the longest, darkest nights. 

When we lived in the Midwest, for two winters, we traveled to Northern Michigan with its frozen lakes and meter-long icicles dangling from cabins and cottages in the woods. Now, in our second year spending winter solstice in the mountains of Tennessee, the winters are, largely, mild. Winters in Tennesee mean sitting around a firepit sipping moonshine. In Europe, while winters are mild, it’s often wet. Here, it’s drier, warmer, and often sunny – perhaps that makes it easier to embrace Midwinter?

I’ve found winter solstice, but that doesn’t mean I embrace the full winter cycle yet. We still often escape to somewhere warmer in January and February: the sunshine of Arizona’s red rocks, the Atlantic coast of Florida. One year I traveled to Hong Kong, Macau, and Taiwan for the entire month of February. Last year, we explored Savannah and Charleston for the remainder of yuletide with their warmth and sunshine. Before solstice this year, we were, again, in Charleston. On the South Carolina coast, light is easier to find. I still have dreams of spending some of this winter in Mexico City or Oaxaca. But, the pandemic, still, makes travel overseas difficult. Here we are. This is the present, and as much as possible, I embrace. 

Notes from my Journal on Winter Solstice: In the bleak midwinter, again, we’re in Tennessee. In the days before Midwinter, it’s difficult to locate the darkness. In charleston, I walk barefoot in the warm sand at Sullivan Island. 

In Charleston, even in the warmth, there, too, is hibernation. At a blackwater bald cypress swamp, I spot my first alligator. The alligator floats above the water rarely moving soaking up the midwinter sun. This is known as dormancy. 

“Reptiles do not fall into slumber and still have periods of activity. Though they do not eat, they continue to drink to avoid dehydration. When alligators brumate, their metabolic rate slows down and they become lethargic. They cease eating and create mud holes for warmth and shelter. On warmer winter days, alligators will emerge to bask in the sun.”

At winter solstice, I get outside. On Christmas Eve, I write these thoughts outside under a blanket with herbal tea. I’m surrounded by trees, and largely, silence. These days, I make an effort to mark the darkest days. To find the light. 

I’m drawn to Britain today. I listen to Carols from Kings. The lyrics of In the Bleak Midwinter and the sound of the wind in the trees surround me. 

Frosty wind made moan. 

Earth stood hard as iron. 

Water like a stone.

Winter solstice marks a place and a space to ground. A pause. This winter solstice the light is more difficult to find than last year here on the mountain. There are grey skies above as we hike, and the omicron variant of coronavirus rips through communities. It is, however, not March or December 2020. Still, uncertainty frequently distracts me from the pause. 

M. buys me a card: “We will survive the darkness - Happy Winter Solstice”

For the period of yule, I set out to make a list only of what will serve me during this period: writing, reading, sleeping, walking or hiking, cooking, yoga, movies, catching up with friends and family - largely remotely.

Haiku: 

In bleak midwinter, 

Woodland surrounds; fire cracks

The longest night here.

Soup bubbles on the stove; fire crackles in the fire pit. Today, as the sun sets at 4:34 pm CT, we sit still. We sip hot water with lemon and honey, spiked with Tennesee Whiskey. 

Reading: 

To me, there is nothing more romantic and grounding than the idea of a tourist town off-season. A place to hibernate. I recently read Winter in Sokcho, and this quote stuck with me: “We’re living in limbo, in a winter that never ends” 

Yule/Yuletide: 

Last winter, like many, I read Wintering by Katherine May. As winter arrived again - both the season and the Omicron stage of this pandemic - I returned to the book, found the podcast, and signed up for the newsletter. In her work, I rediscovered yule and yuletide. Her words help me connect more deeply with the season. I often struggle to say Merry Christmas or feel excited on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. Connecting with yule adds resonance with the holidays. I can feel the pause of yule at the end of an endless fall semester. 

Maybe, next year, I’ll travel even further into the darkness to find the light where it is most difficult to source. Iceland or Greenland? We shall see. I will, also, continue to understand yule and yuletide. This year, I also found the light in learning about Hannukah; I brought a menorah to light each evening of the eight nights at my window. Beaming light into the darkness each evening in a personal ceremony. 

And, during yule, we mourn Joan Didion. 

Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.

Isn’t this what happened - is happening - with the pandemic? Again, a reason to pause and embrace the present, whether it’s warm or cold, light or dark. 

A final reflection from a Christmas Eve hike in Tennessee: 

In Tennessee, when I see a rainbow, which I often do in waterfalls, I think of Dolly Parton: “If you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.”

Charleston, South Carolina