Category Archives: Solstice

Jan 03 2016
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Christmas, Solstice

There is a Light That Never Goes Out

St Genevieve

NINTH DAY of CHRISTMAS
St. Genevieve’s Day

We’re getting to the home stretch. Many people by now are a little sick of Christmas and it’s not unusual, especially this weekend, to see spent Christmas trees tossed out unceremoniously on the side of the road. Our neighbor Old Mr. Solderholm, a staunch yet grumpy traditionalist, once punched another neighbor of ours square in the nose for setting his tree out at the curb too soon. Granted it was only the day after Christmas and there were, to be sure, other things going on between them, but punching a man in the nose is a bit further than I care to go for my traditions. Still, though Mr. Solderholm and I rarely see things the same way, I do feel a certain kinship with him at times. It is a sad sight to see a Christmas tree on the curb like rubbish, but even more so when the yuletide season is not yet over.

Whether your Christmas celebration is a religious or a secular one, there is a traditional ending to both: the sixth day of January. The odd thing about all this is that if you are amongst those who celebrate through that date, you are in the minority. So if you are still celebrating, as we in this house are still celebrating, well… welcome to the counter culture.

Even here in the Christmas counter culture there are many matters of debate. This, I think, is because Christmas has such a long history and is connected to customs both religious and secular (and indeed customs that predate Christianity itself). It is a bit of a paradox. One of the things I’d like to address here is that I have given you one system of counting these Twelve Days of Christmas, but ask other people and you will get other systems. The fact is that there is more than one way to count the Twelve Days of Christmas. To be sure, over the centuries it’s become a muddled mess. Ask people in the Church, and you will probably find their days one off from the version you’re reading here. To them, Christmas Day is the First Day of Christmas, and Epiphany on the Sixth of January begins a new season. But so much about a church Christmas is derived from a more earthly approach––a more pagan Christmas––that Christmas is truly like a plum pudding or a steaming punch: many varied ingredients, many methods of concocting. For those of us who love Christmas, what is sure is that it is important to us to keep it and keep it well, and that means keeping it for its traditional season of Twelve Days. It matters not where you begin counting. What matters is the spirit in which you keep the season. On this, Old Mr. Solderholm and I can agree, and so can most everyone who loves Christmas.

As I grow older, and as Christmas flies more and more quickly each year, the more interested I become in yet another of the more pagan traditions: the one that suggests Christmas begins with the Midwinter Solstice and continues on all the way to the cross quarter day that marks, more or less, the halfway point between the Midwinter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. In this tradition, Christmas ends on the Second of February, which is Imbolc, the start of spring in the traditional round of the year, and, in the Church, Candlemas. Here in the States, we mark that date most famously with Groundhog Day. But check with the 17th century British poet Robert Herrick and in his works you will find very specific instructions about the ending of Christmas. This is what he writes about Candlemas Day, that February 2nd celebration:

Down with the rosemary and so
Down with the baies and mistletoe;
Down with the holly, ivie, all
Wherewith ye drest the Christmas hall;
That so the superstitious find
No one least branch there left behind,
For look, how many leaves there be
Neglected there, maids, trust to me,
So many goblins you shall see.

If you love Christmas, Robert Herrick may be your man. And if you are slow to take down your Christmas greenery, remember you are part of an ancient practice, no matter what your friends and neighbors think. Just so long as you have it down by Candlemas (no one wants goblins underfoot).

But with all of this, I am getting far, far ahead of myself, for here we are today, the Ninth Day of Christmas. It is St. Genevieve’s Day. I knew a Genevieve when I was a boy. She was an old friend of the family and she was feisty and independent and she often wore a bandana on her head. Even in her old age, she would go up on the roof of her house and fix things that needed fixing. St. Genevieve strikes me as feisty and independent, too, and certainly someone who was not afraid to fix things that needed fixing. She is sacred to Paris, where she lived in the fifth century as a nun. She saved the city from an attack by Attila and his Huns in 451. This she did through fasting and prayer, encouraging the residents of the city to join her. And around 475, she founded Saint-Denys de la Chapelle in Paris, which stands today as part of the Basilica of St. Denis.

Today, for this Ninth Day of Christmas, we remember St. Genevieve, and perhaps with a bit more affection this St. Genevieve’s Day than last year as she watches over the City of Light. We are in the midst now of a more contemplative period within the Twelve Days of Christmas. Yesterday we remembered St. Macarius, or St. Macaroon the Confectioner, and tomorrow we remember a few other saints (four of them, to be exact). There are no particular customs associated with the Feast Day of St. Genevieve, nor this Ninth Day of Christmas (as well as the day that follows) and my theory is that this more contemplative time within the Christmas revels is here by design. We need some time for quiet and for reflection, and to catch our breath. The most proper way to celebrate this Ninth Day of Christmas, if you ask me, is with stillness and candlelight. St. Genevieve is another of the midwinter saints typically associated with light: she is often depicted holding a candle, and the story goes that the devil time and again would blow out her candle as she went to pray at night, so as to thwart her. Genevieve, however, was able to relight her candle without need of flint or fire. And so she is another of the light bearers in midwinter’s darkness. Thirteen days on the other side of the solstice, already light is increasing as we begin the journey toward summer’s warmth once more in the Northern Hemisphere. The light of St. Genevieve promises to never be snuffed by the darkness.

 

Image: St. Genevieve by an unknown artist, 17th century. [Public domain] via Wikimedia Commons.

 

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Dec 21 2015
8 Comments
Advent, Christmas, Solstice, Yule

Receiving Radiance

solstice

Since the midsummer solstice in June, we have been gradually losing daylight here in the planet’s Northern Hemisphere. Just a bit each day. By the autumnal equinox in September, day and night were equal. And now, here at the midwinter solstice, we reach the end of that cycle: It is the longest night of the year. Tomorrow, the pendulum begins its shift to the opposite and light will once again begin to increase. It is the clockwork of our planet, the constant rearrange, each day slightly different from the one before it and the one that follows.

For those of us who keep the traditional ways, the revels of midwinter are just now getting underway. We’ve been preparing all these weeks––last night, the Fourth Sunday of Advent, we lit the fourth candle in the advent wreath, completing the circle: four purple candles and one rose. The daily advent candle is burning down, too: just four nights from now, the candle will be gone. Our time of preparation is coming to a close and the real festivity is about to begin with Christmas Eve and Christmas Day and the Twelve Days of Christmas that follow: six of which are in the old year, six in the new––twelve days that stand outside of ordinary time.

But that is still ahead of us. For tonight, we celebrate the planet’s reaching its wintertime zenith in its constant shift, like an old man in his rocking chair on the porch. On this longest night of the year, Seth and I will head out into that midwinter darkness, and in the copper fire bowl in the back yard we will light a fire made from the wood of last year’s Christmas tree, which has been resting quietly in a corner of the yard all year long. It is our own little tradition but one that we feel honors best the spirit of the tree that brought us so much joy last yuletide. This year, the actual moment of solstice––of sun standing still (from the Latin sol stetit, “sun stands still”) is 11:49 PM here in Lake Worth, which is Eastern Daylight Time. You can count on us being out there at our fire at that moment (and for a good while before and after, as well), probably with a bottle of St. Bernardus Christmas Ale.

Will you join us in spirit? We’ve been talking about our solstice tradition for years now, so maybe there are some among you who also save last year’s tree for this night. Or maybe this is your year to begin doing so. Or maybe the best you can do is to light a candle with us tonight at 11:49. Wherever you are and however you join in, we are here as light bearers ourselves, receiving radiance from others: from sun, from flame, from the kindness we send out into the world reflected upon us. We bid you peace. Welcome yule.

Here’s a yuletide gift for you, from us: it is Björk’s song Solstice. You will most likely have to endure a brief advertisement before the video, but once that part is done, I’d suggest viewing it full screen and turning up the volume a bit. It is a simple and beautiful song, just Björk’s odd and powerful voice accompanied by the gravity harp, a musical instrument created especially for the songs on her 2011 record Biophilia. This song and its accompanying video remind me of the great immensity of things, of things much larger than my self and my concerns. Sometimes seeing the bigger picture is very comforting.

 

Jun 23 2015
1 Comment
Midsummer, Solstice, St. John's Eve

On What Makes Magic

Viola Tricolor

St. John’s Eve, tonight, brings Midsummer. In the seasonal round of the year, we now sit directly opposite Midwinter and Christmas. The celebrations for both Midwinter and Midsummer are old celebrations, older than you or I or anyone can recall, older even than the events assigned to them by the early Church, for the Church early on recognized that honey draws more flies than vinegar, and in that spirit, old pagan celebrations continued but with new names and new focus. Hence the birth of Christ was set at the winter solstice and the birth of John the Baptist, the voice crying in the wilderness, setting the path straight for the savior, was set at the summer solstice.

St. John is unusual in that he is remembered not just on the day of his death (which is the case with all the other saints) but also on the day of his birth. And as is often the case with traditional holidays, it is the eve the night before when the real celebration occurs. My take on this is that there is a certain magic to nighttime events: perceived magic if not real, though our ancestors thought nights like Midsummer and Midwinter full of real magic and open to the realm of fairies and sprites and other folks of parallel universes. You need only look to Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, set on this very night, to grasp the beliefs.

But no matter whether you give credence to these other realms or not, there is no denying the air of mystery that accompanies a celebration at night. We hang fairy lights in the trees, we light candles and beseeching fires, we walk amongst flowers that bloom only at night and spice the air we breathe. We take our celebration outdoors and the stars and moon are above us and this is infinitely more mysterious than the ceilings in our homes. This, too, is magic, as powerful as any other.

Midsummer and St. John’s Day are not much celebrated in the States, much to our loss. But in other places, this is a night to spend out in the open air. In Scandinavia, with the sun at its northernmost point in the sky, this is the time of the Midnight Sun (how magical is that?). It is a night there for bonfires and meals of pickled herring and new potatoes with sour cream. Further south in Italy bonfires are also part of the night, but the meals vary by region. In Rome, the Midsummer meal centers around snails; local belief holds that eating snails, horned as they are like devils, will protect you from Midsummer mischief. In the towns of Northern Italy, Midsummer is a time to break out balsamic vinegar, aged as long as a hundred years. Every part of the meal has some of this nectar of the gods in it, for the lore of the land says that this is the time of year when the must enters the grape on the vine, and it is the must that will eventually become both the wine and the balsamic vinegar (again, magic). The must is the juice, crucial to both, for good balsamic vinegar is made from must just as is wine. It is then aged all those years in casks of various types of woods: at least a dozen years, but, as mentioned above, sometimes a hundred years or more.

It is a night to go and gather plants for their magical properties: fern seed and St. John’s Wort. The latter will protect you from evil, the former, if gathered properly, is believed to confer the power of invisibility. But not without some peril: the seeds are fiercely guarded by the fairy folk who know more of these secrets than do we. The magical properties of plants also play into Shakespeare’s comedy. Have you ever wondered what is the “herb” (a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound) that Oberon instructs Puck to fetch and squeeze the juice of onto the eyelids of Titania and then of the lovers? Well, these are the things I wonder about. Oberon goes on to tell us that maidens call it “love-in-idleness,” but in modern terms it turns out the herb is a flower known as Viola Tricolor, also known as Heartsease or Wild Pansy. You may have some blooming now in your summer garden. So much magic, so close to home. Make the most of it. Happy Midsummer.

Image: Viola Tricolor, Plate No. 227 in Bilder ur Nordens Flora by C.A.M. Lindman, published in 1905. [Public domain] via Wikimedia Commons.

 

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