Winter Solstice

The Winter Solstice—the longest night of the year—is tonight. To be precise, the solstice occurs at half past midnight in my beloved city.

I don’t know why, but I feel like I should mark the occasion. Maybe light some candles. Or toast the return of the sun with some champagne. Or crawl into bed early and reread Carl Sagan’s Cosmos or the Farmers Almanac. I choose all three: candles, champagne and extended bedtime reading.

But I can’t concentrate on either of the books. I keep staring at the fake starry sky projected on my ceiling while reflecting on the significance of this seemingly insignificant milestone of the winter solstice.

Since the summer solstice, we have been moving away from the sun with shortening daylight. This in turn has caused our trees to change color spectacularly until there is nothing left but barren branches. The birds have flown south leaving my mornings nearly silent instead of the full orchestral chorus I enjoyed previously. And the deep-seated need to nest has kicked in fully for me and my daughters.

Out come the blankets and reading lights. Our oven is running almost nightly turning out homemade bread, roasted turkeys or hams, cookies and even a squash or two or four. Our dinner table has become once again the hub of our family life where dinners are hosted, where homework or puzzles are completed, and where the sewing machine finds new life.

Perhaps that’s appropriate. Afterall, the solstice officially marks a new beginning. As far back as our anthropology can understand, the winter solstice was a major milestone of the year, marking the last big feast of the harvest in preparation for the cold months ahead, as well as the festival of the lights, as people celebrated the sun’s return.

I don’t know why, but it all feels so very romantic. Granted maybe it has more to do with my once reading a book where everyone was destined to fall in love at the solstice, though, come to think about it, perhaps it was the summer solstice when everyone fell in love.

Don’t get me wrong, Gentle Penguin, I have no aspirations that I will find myself in the midst of a romantic love affair this winter, let alone tonight. But, between the soft twinkle of my Christmas tree, the warmth and weight of blankets piled high on my lap and visions of the unending cycle of life dancing in my head, perhaps there is more to romance than simply mixing fairy tales with liverwurst and buttermilk.

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