Solstice Shelter

   

             The week before Yule (AKA Winter Break) is often a scramble. Juniors are madly rewriting papers and demanding help on the thesi—help that was due the week before, quite often—while the younger students are finishing up projects they stalled a bit on, and admin is trying to hold one more staff meeting. Add three council sessions, one work session before the final meeting of the term, and trying to find time to set up and decorate the tree, and it was a busy week or so. And then the first day of Break was Solstice, without a great deal of prep time.

                Friday night, we finally decorated the tree. It had been in the stand since Tuesday evening, but, because it is a big tree with a crooked base, it took us three times as long as usual to set it up, and we were starving by the time it was braced in the living room, so we left it dark. On Wednesday morning, I draped the lights over the branches while eating toast and perched the angel on the top. The rest had to wait. Friday evening, I rolled out pizza dough to rise and we went to work with the ornaments. It was covered in time for dinner; afterwards, I packed up the box, heaved it into the attic, and cleared out the ladder from the cosy room. Before we went to bed, I started a pot of local black beans for soup.

                Saturday was Solstice. It started with tea and watching the little birds—juncos and finches, mostly, with one towhee and a couple of jays—descend on the ladder feeder outside the living room window.  They were already lined up on the plum tree when I went out with the seed. After breakfast, I prepped our dinner, set up the fire, and found the new candles and old holders. Mark filled the lanterns and washed dishes. We watched the clouds break and flashes of sunlight across the bay tree while we worked. When I went to bring in a couple of clay pots from the greenhouse, I realized that the chairs stored inside were the perfect place to sit and read, so we did.

                After lunch, we went for our traditional walk around the wildlife refuge—clouds were heavy, backed up against the foothills of the coast range. Hail and rain drenched us for about 15 minutes, but the air was warm, so we kept on going. Being outside on the short, cloudy grey days keeps us sane, if damp. After our walk, we changed clothes and headed downtown to the ceremony in remembrance of those who have died on our streets this year—at least sixteen names, just in our town, from being unsheltered.  

We came home, lit the fire, ate our dinner, moved the elderly cat from lap to lap, and dried out our clothes from the day. In our yard, the rabbit burrowed down into his pile of straw, looking for the last bits of apple and the chickens climbed up on their safe perch for the night. Even in the busyness of the world, we are sheltered.

Advent

 

               Even though I am no longer catholic—or any sort of organized religion—this time between Thanksgiving and Solstice remains a sacred part of the year. Advent. The days are still growing shorter and colder; I find myself starting dinner at four thirty, rather than six PM, as I do in summer.  The chickens are down late and up early, but still chowing to stay warm. Their feathers are all back from the fall molt. Mr Beezhold stays in the hutch in the morning, waiting for the ground to warm up. We sleep later, buried under piles of blankets, jump up to turn on the heat, and return to bed while the house warms on weekend mornings. On clear afternoons, the bare branches reach for the sky, stark against the dying light.  When it is cloudy or foggy, everything is hidden. Living so far north, the darkness feels longer and deeper than it did when I was a child.

                We spend  afternoons, when it is dry enough, on long walks in the woods. I gather green branches for the mantel. We consider the wide range of fungi that are sprouting up on logs, on trees, in the pathway itself, and how the ice storm last year opened up sections of the preserve for more light. Rushes are now growing by the trail in standing water. Where did that come from? A few catkins are beginning to stretch out but there are no blooms. And it is quiet. So quiet.  

                What have we learned in the past year? What did we do right? What would we like to change, if we could? These three weeks have become an accounting of the year.  We wait, in hope, in peace, for the return of the sun on Solstice night.

Seasonal Records

 

                As we move towards the end of the year, further and further into the dark last days, I reach for rituals, daily, weekly, monthly.  I have two books and one box that help ground me in the circles of the years.

                The first is my paired set of the Book of Days. Back when I worked at Ceres Bakery and lived in Portsmouth, I stepped back from the established holiday rituals, especially around Christmas, and considered what was more important to me and my need for connection and reduced material consumption. I learned about the old pagan ways of Northern Europe, considered some Jewish holidays, and did some historical research. While I worked, I made notes in two big blank books—one runs from March until August, the other from September to February.  I made little sketches and borders and wrote everything down, along with when I first heard peepers and some seasonal recipes. These books still rest on my desk and I pull them out to record significant events, usually in the natural world, even now.

                The second book is a white binder, which has a page for every week of the year. This is the Garden notebook. I track planting dates, weather events, and harvests week by week, all year long. I can tell you that, this week, has been a traditional time to move the coop from one bed to the next, has had several years of big rain, and others of dank fog. Lots of mulching is finishing up during week 47. I also keep the garden maps and the seed orders from past years as well as a page of notes for the coming season.   It has resolved several arguments and helped track sowing schedules!

                Finally, I have a recipe box that is divided into eight sections—one for each cross quarter day. Each small season has recipes specific to what is ripe then, making seasonal, local veg recipe planning much easier. Sometimes I move a recipe from one section to another; sometimes a recipe spans several seasons; sometimes one is misfiled for a year and I have to hunt for it. But, overall, it works. It helps us revel in what is available and fresh now and not miss what we cannot have.  I have also spread some cookie recipes out through the year so that they are more special.

                Each book allows me—actually requires me—to focus on what is happening in the world right now and consider what I can and cannot control. I am able, in the words of Thoreau, to Live Deliberately and to suck out all of the marrow of life and not, when it comes time to die, to find that I have not lived.