Winter Solstice

“The seasons shift! Rejoice!”

Several dozen of us, bundled up against the cold on the longest night of 2002, moved clockwise from our places to the next point on the compass. We were distributed around a large circle in the snow at the four cardinal points: North, South, East, and West. At each move, a reader at a one of these stations intoned ritual words that acknowledged and celebrated our connection to the seasons. At the end of each reading, David Walsh, our celebrant, dressed in a long robe and a jester’s hat, rang some jingle bells and once again called out, “The seasons shift! Rejoice!”

Solstice, from the Latin “sun stands still”, is the time year when the noon sun does not seem to move very much from day to day. Technically, it is the moment (and it is just a moment) when the noon sun appears overhead at the Tropic of Capricorn (winter in the northern hemisphere) or the Tropic of Cancer (northern summer). From that point on, the noon sun moves further north (in December) or further south (in June), the days lengthening or shortening, as may be.

This happens pretty slowly. At 50°N latitude, where I live, the length of the day changes a mere four seconds from December 21 to 22. There is almost no difference in day length between the end of November and the beginning of January. It’s almost like watching a ball at the top of its arc, just where it ceases to rise and begins to fall. The ball floats there for a moment, then begins picking up speed as it descends. So, too, does the change of day length pick up speed until it reaches its fastest point at the next equinox, midway between the two solstices.

The sun doesn’t really pause or speed up like the rising and falling ball; it’s just a trick of the angles. The earth orbits the sun at a more-or-less constant speed, but because of the tilt of the earth, the sun shines on us differently throughout the year. This is the change we witness through the seasons. The pattern repeats when the earth returns to the same point in its orbit a year later.

The winter solstice invites to consider our opposing feelings about the dark. The darkness can induce a feeling of sadness; contemplation in the dark can provide a peace that only arises in the quiet of the night. We cannot walk easily in the dark; only in darkness can we see the stars.

The winter solstice invites us to remember the return of the light. Although this time of year is the darkest, as soon as we acknowledge it and before we notice, the change has already begun. With eyes of faith and hope, we see the returning of the light, ready for another year.

The winter solstice invites contemplation of the endless round of seasons. Each round has a similar pattern of rising and falling light, but with a different manifestation in each round. We have repetition, but also continuation. Since it is a journey forward, each round brings the new into being and faces us with loss as the old departs. Ogden Nash expresses this poignantly in his poem, The Middle:

When I remember bygone days
I think how evening follows morn;
So many I loved were not yet dead,
So many I love were not yet born.

Since that Winter Solstice in 2002, there have been so many changes. My father, father-in-law, and mother-in-law are all gone. So are several friends who are closer to my age. David Walsh, who led us in our celebration, has gone, too. Others have come to join us: new in-laws and children have joined the family circle. Many others, friends and those unknown to us, have entered and left the scene. We are in a vast circle of coming and going, the light brightening and dimming, connecting us physically and spiritually to our earth as it makes its endless round.

The seasons shift! Rejoice!