Winter Solstice

Tonight will be the longest night of the year. To honor the Solstice night, I am planning to make a big bonfire. At one time, I consumed all of Thomas Hardy's books on rural England. I identified with the country life and was quite impressed by their practice of building bonfires, particularly on the dark night of the moon.

In early afternoon, I leave the computer to sit out on the deck to eat my lunch. As I bask in the warm sun, a cold breeze attempts to blow my mind away. I can even feel the evergreen leaves from a nearby tree quivering across my chest as they flutter in the breeze. I feel so wonderful; my heart feels so open, it actually hurts.

I don't know exactly what got me into this expanded state. It would appear that my current tedious activity did not contribute, for I have been making computer letters by adding names and addresses and a few personal notes to my standard query letter. However, I have remained very focused on my task. One obvious contribution is the Christmas music I've been playing. Among my tapes, I have somehow acquired a couple of English ones. Both contain some classical pieces by Bach, including Ave Maria, which absolutely sends me soaring.

In addition, I simply am elated by the ambiance of this lovely day with its intermittent cloud cover and mild temperature. Bubbling with lots of enthusiasm, I take a break in the afternoon to go down to the pond to prepare the site for my evening ceremony. A bonfire is so appropriate for a solstice celebration, a glowing radiance to brighten the longest night of the year. It seems like a symbolic action to welcome the sun's return to the high heavens after its annual journey to the south.

From underneath the trees, I gather wood that has been knocked down in the recent storms and arrange the branches in a large teepee shape over the fire pit. Soon I have everything ready to return after dark. However, just five minutes before I am to walk out the door, a strong cold wind blows in, then rain begins pouring in earnest. I feel utterly disappointed because it has been so warm for a couple of days that I was envisioning dancing around in shorts.

For the next week, the stormy nights persist, alternating with freezing cold nights. I am forced to stay inside, basking beside the fireplace. I love to watch the flames of a fire, whether indoors or out. With open eyes, I take in the sparkle of the blaze leaping up to ignite the larger logs. The rosy-tipped fingers of the flames reach higher and higher. As I concentrate on the glowing logs, they capture the fiery petals and draw them into their wood. The logs hold many memories of past years scarred in their depths. Their rings record the years of drought, the years of plenty. They remind me that life is always renewing itself—even the cells in my body.

Finally, after a week's wait, a clear mild day arrives. Since I have a manuscript ready to mail to a literary agent and need to pick up groceries and supplies, I take the opportunity to check out Huntsville, which is my nearest town for shopping. Thoroughly enjoying a leisurely drive, I pass through countryside lined with forest, but also with wide meadows, scattered with grazing cattle. Thirty minutes later, I arrive in the former home of Sam Houston, the namesake of Houston, as well as the forest I live in. Sad to say, the pioneer's hometown has been converted into strips of ticky-tacky square stores, highlighted with McDonalds and KFC. I am pleased to see a little old-fashioned town square; however, a large squat courthouse takes up the whole central block, eliminating any impression of a quaint “town square.”

After mailing my package, I take a leisurely stroll around the square. It has turned out to be a perfectly lovely afternoon—slightly cool, with a gentle breeze that says autumn, rather than the middle of winter. I find the usual jewelry store, shoe store and even a prison museum. Most of the establishments are antique shops that evidently cater to an unseen tourist trade. I stop to admire the corner posted with a plaque informing me that this is the spot where Sam Houston used to sit while he whittled and told stories. Those times are obviously long gone as a rack of uniforms for sale now stands in the place, certainly a symbol of the antithesis of having time for the telling of tall tales. Remarkably, I note, I am the only person on the sidewalk. I have not passed a single person in my entire reconnoitering of the square.

Then I pop in at the Café Texas. “Where people meat and eat”—states a bright neon sign. As I sip the hot cup of coffee, I glance around, but the place is empty of any local characters to “meat” and draw any downhome stories out of. Yet, I thoroughly enjoy their great collection of old photos of Huntsville (originally a logging town), which line the walls.

I rush back home since it looks as if the skies are going to be clear enough for my bonfire tonight. Again, just as darkness is falling, a storm starts blowing in from the south. But the sky here is only partly cloudy, so I remain hopeful. As the warmth of the day lingers on, I determine I can risk proceeding with my bonfire.

I'm going to celebrate Life! It doesn't take many props to have a party when you have the whole out-of-doors as your stage. I throw all my supplies into the car: kindling, a fire-starter torch and a bag of scrap paper, along with a bottle of wine. At the fire pit, I am surprised to find the branches are still standing in the teepee shape just as I placed them a week ago, in spite of the stormy winds that have been blowing through here for the past week. Soon I have a golden blaze leaping and jumping up into the dark night. In a contented mood, I sit back and listen to the sounds of fire burnishing and garnishing the still silent night.

After some time, my elation from immersing myself in the warmth of the fire and the mystery of the night pushes me into motion. I start circling the fire, singing, "I celebrate Love; I celebrate Life; I celebrate You." You means many things to me. It's this incredible natural world of trees water stars clouds. It's all my friends both known and unknown to me. It's the phenomenal creative power and intelligence. It's my ecstatic body and mind.

The fire is soon leaping and dancing with me. The temperature becomes so warm that I have to peel off my clothes piece by piece. The cool fresh live air soothes my sweating body. Fortunately, the strong wind of the approaching storm only blows in spurts or it would be too much for me. There's something about a certain wind—not so strong—on a warm night that brings back a familiar feeling. When the wind catches and blows my hair, it takes me right back to the moors of Hardy's England—and I've never even been there. The wind carries away my mind and my cares, leaving only a fragment of my imagination.

I sit back and get out my bottle of wine. Sipping the deep red liquid, I bask in the light and warmth of the fire. The clouds have spread a thin veil over the sky, but a few stars are attempting to send their splendor to brighten the black night. As I watch one, it disappears, then reappears a few moments later. Experiencing them in this gentle glow is so different than seeing them sparkling brilliantly on their usual black backdrop.

Finally the wind hushes to a complete calm, so I take off with bare feet over the grassy bank down to the pond. I have been hearing the wood ducks, who are sleeping in the cove, give out an occasional quack as they rustle and rearrange themselves. But I am looking for something else. Yes, I spy one—practically at my feet—a reflection of a star in the dark wet liquid of the pond. The point of light suddenly melts into the misty clouds, then another one appears nearby. The stars continue to glow and fade in the sheen of the pond's shiny liquid that remains still and vibrant to reflect the heavenly lights. Overcome with the lovely moment, I begin to belt out the song, O Holy Night. It's one that is too difficult for me to sing, but I love trying. At least, my noise does not frighten the ducks away. I can still hear them rustling about.

Turning back to the fire, I hear the flutter of wings above me in the oak tree. The commotion brings my attention overhead where I am surprised to see that the clouds have quickly cleared and the stars are now glistening. I spot Taurus, my birth constellation, right over the fire pit. I honor the strength that Taurus has given me, and the delight in Life that Venus, its ruling planet, has endowed me. As I stand watching the heavens, the clouds suddenly return, bestowing a veil of shimmering radiance to the light of the stars again.

I whirl in ecstasy and start up the chant again, “I celebrate Love; I celebrate Life; I celebrate You. . .” again and again and again. I feel the joy of being here, of being connected with nature, of being connected with Life, of being connected with my Self: that tender gentle being that accepts allows acknowledges. I feel so full of Life, so complete.