Bold Little Swallow

It’s the Winter Solstice, perfectly met with a lovely snow storm that has continued through the weekend.  Tomorrow my goal is to get some photos of the huge icicles hanging from our roof.  B fortunately already took down the ones above the walkway; though normally I would have found this a little silly at most likely unnecessary, these icicles should be classified lethal weapons.

I have to say I love the Winter Solstice.  It’s my second favorite pagan holiday, second only to Imbolc.  This may surprise many who know me, because while I adore snow and appreciate four seasons, and I also adore wooly winter items (especially those that I’ve knit), my favorite weather is a warm, breezy summer day, full of deep blue skies and the verdant green that overwhelms this valley.  I hate being cold, and avoid it whenever possible.  I hate it when the fall gets nippy enough to make walks unpleasant, and when the lengthening darkness creeping around morning and evening makes weekday walks thoroughly impossible.  I hate leaving my job after sunset (which seems to happen around 4-4:15pm), knowing that the lack of sun cuts out the late afternoon lull between work and evening.  I don’t have SAD, but I can feel something inside me pining away all winter, and every year there’s an internal explosion of ecstatic joy when the weather is warm enough to put away the winter coats and scarves.  Another winter defeated, another warm summer ahead.  Then autumn comes, making me feel the inevitable sadness of knowing something good is almost over, like an old graying dog who has seen better days.

Yet despite this, my two favorite pagan holidays are on the opposite end of the year as my beloved summer, well past autumn’s warm colors and long before spring’s first sprouts.  I love that, in the darkest part of the year, people almost instinctively gather in large, cozy numbers to feast, to chat, to gift gives, to spread cheer and goodwill, and to decorate with as many lights as their electrical outputs can stand.  We dress in vibrant crimson, eat unhealthy fattening and sweet delights, talk each others’ ears off, and give little tokens of appreciation, affection, or at the very least forced familial love.  Warmth and spice fill the air.

And, most importantly, so does light.  I love the light.  The blinding sun of summer is nothing to the beauty of candle-lit windows and light-stranded trees.  The warmth of summer days is nothing to piles of blankets and someone to snuggle with.  They say that the bad times are there to make you appreciate to good, and that’s definitely true of the seasons.  Snow aside, winter sucks, but its cold, dark face is exactly what makes all those pretty twinkling lights gorgeous.  I love daytime hours, but I’d rather gaze at the darkest night sky than at the clouds, because nothing compares to the beauty of stars, the millions and billions of eyes from the heavens.  Those little lights in the dark are beacons of hope (which is needed most in despair), of wonder (most brilliant when life is dull), of goodwill (most appreciated when bitterness is overwhelming).  To me, they are the stuff of grace, of faith, and of everything good.

That is the beauty of the winter holidays.  The flickering candle of light, warmth, and cheer most precious in the dark, cold winter nights.  It is both a comfort to know that in the winter there is warmth, and an inspiration to be the light, the warmth and comfort, when surrounded by darkness.