THE SUN STOOD STILL

The word solstice comes from the Latin sol (sun) and sistere (to stand still). Twice a year, the sun stands still as it reaches its maximum or a minimum arc.
Today was as the late December solstice should be, cold and windy, wet with a minus low tide, red and orange sea stars littering the beach.
So, winter begins.
By 5:30, Alex and I were both saying how sleepy, almost dreamy, we were, how it felt so late. But like so many others, we ignored nature's invitation to stay home to rest and pushed ourselves out into the noisy, electrified and very busy downtown. We both noticed how the garbage can outside of Bookshop overflowed with empty coffee cups-- an entire culture determined not to live with the flow of seasons, to be blind to the parallel gifts of short winter days and long summer ones. Alex recalled that for the Navajo, it was taboo not to be awake for the sunrise and the sunset.

I hope someday to live more in tune with the ever-changing light and gift of the seasons, to experience a quieter existence with less pushing against the natural ebb and flow. I love waking with the sun. But at night, I'm full of resistence. Even as a little girl, I always fought going to sleep. Now, even when I'm tired, my body and mind resist letting go and saying good-bye to the day. I've always had trouble with endings. I hold on to things longer than I should. Maybe it's fear. Maybe greed. Something for me to think about.

So on this solstice night, I'm still awake at midnight, warm in a bathrobe, listening to a blues CD that I bought Alex for the holidays and watching the Hanukah candles burn down. Maybe today is the night of the Hanukah miracle and the candles will keep burning. Maybe the shortest day of the year will miraculously become the longest.
Maybe.
Maybe.
No, not tonight.