In the end, I think, there has just been no acceptable way
to put such a year to rest. No way to
sort through and bundle the events of a thoroughly distressing twelve months
into a neat collection of lessons and revelations to absorb and carry forward
into the new year. So breaking out the
trappings of what amounts to a year-end celebration has seemed irrelevant,
bordering on downright inappropriate.
Putting out my prodigious collection of holiday decorations--a process
that usually immerses me in the joy of
fond memories of past celebrations--has this year, been more of a gun-to-the-head
obligation that has left me peevish and frustrated. It all seems so...pointless.
Though Christmas is a dearly cherished tradition, the day
itself is not actually of spiritual significance to me personally,
anymore. In fact, I find the absorption of
the ancient pagan holiday of Solstice into Christian tradition, as the birth date
of the "savior," somewhat amusing, and more than a little
annoying. Maybe if you have to borrow so
much from the spirituality that has been around for ages in order to promote
your concept of "salvation," your religion isn't quite as
earth-shattering as you would like to believe.
Certainly it has wrought little of peace, brotherhood, wisdom,
charity...or salvation... in its 2100-year existence.
The Solstice is my spiritual holiday. For those of us who communicate with the
Creator through the wonders of the natural world, this turning point of the
year--pivoting away from ever-growing night, toward the return of the light--is
symbolic of so much of life. Without the
promise of light beyond darkness, life becomes...hopeless. This year especially, I so keenly anticipate the
journey out of the gloom, and back to light and hope, it's almost a physical
ache. Who among us is not yearning for
the light of truth and sanity to return to our world in the coming year?
The weeks leading up to Christmas this year were a
slow-motion foot race; straining to catch up with the holiday spirit, tackle it
from behind and grab some piece of it to inspire my lackluster
preparations. I even tried making some
executive decisions pursuant to scaling back my usual over-the-top decorating
mania, but I still couldn't catch up or catch "it." It took me 8 days to decorate three rooms...and
there was little joy attached to the chore.
By the Thursday before Christmas, I still hadn't accomplished my meager
Christmas shopping list. It was "Get
in the car, go over the hill and get it done, now or never." AND it was Solstice. So the day had my two traditions colliding in
a tangle of last-minute retail mania and the conflicting mandate to stop, quiet
the whirlwind and indulge in some year-end soul searching.
As I wound down the road descending the hill from my
shopping excursion, it crossed my mind that maybe I should bag my Solstice fire
for that evening. Surely I would be
calmer and more centered in the morning...and I would have the entire day to
contemplate, ruminate and celebrate.
But, no...something told me that THIS was the time. Solstice was Solstice, and I needed to honor
my commitment to my chosen spiritual path.
So I called the husband from the car, and asked him to
collect up the various firewood we might have lying around the property and
pile it up for me out by my coffee deck.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled in the driveway, dumped my packages
inside the house, and proceeded to set myself to gathering the
firewood that the husband hadn't got around to getting. It didn't take too long to collect everything
I needed: the wood, some sage, something to light it all with; paper and
sharpie to write down the "things that no longer served" that I would
burn in my fire; a set of hand bells to accompany myself, should I decide to
sing or chant; an outfit of warm clothing that I wouldn't mind smelling of
smoke afterward. And that was it. The task of making my Solstice fire happen,
which had seemed, like everything else this year, a nearly insurmountable
bother, was accomplished quickly and almost painlessly.
I lit the fire and stared into it through a fog of dumb
surprise, unable, for a moment, to get a handle on what I should do next. After a short interval of conscious slowing down
and sliding into a more contemplative mood, I commenced the motions of my
little ritual.
I burned my handful of things that no longer serve, I shook
my bells and sang a bit. It was all a little colorless and weak...like everything
else about the season. Definitely a case
of "fake it 'til you make it"--I was by god going to have this
spiritual time even though I really wasn't into it. One thing that made it less wonderful than my
past Solstice fires was the loss of the expectation of a visit from some
representative of the natural world, some creature with a message from the
Creator that I could take with me into the time of renewal. As it was much later in the day than my usual
Solstice celebration, I could hardly expect a bird or animal to visit my fire,
there in the misty dark in my quasi-suburban back yard; which made the whole
ceremony feel even more like just going through the motions.
But as I calmed and opened myself to the Spirit, I came to
understand that I should stop, be quiet
and listen to...what there was to hear.
Astonishingly, the first thing I heard was the voice of a wailing
coyote, floating above the sounds of traffic and trains, in the not very far
distance. It was a wake-up call: "We are out here. Do not discount us merely because you cannot
see us." Heartened by that sense of being in the company of wild things, I
continued to pause from time to time in my ritual, to listen to what the
Universe might have for me.
And what it had was...geese.
Over and over, for the entire duration of my fire, once I set myself to
listening. And not the distant honking
that floats over from the marshes and the island to the east. No...these sounds of geese calling pierced the
murky darkness right above my head. As
if they were deliberately signaling that they had come to attend my fire, to
bring me comfort and a message from the Creator.
Goose has a particular place in my personal spirituality. She is one of my spirit guides. She is the bird of my family, of my
ancestors. And Goose represents peace in
my daily salutation--in my prayers to the four directions, I turn to the north
and ask Goose to guide me to peace. And
lately, I have been imploring my familial spirits, represented by Goose, to
gather energy and reach out to family members who are trapped in darkness and
pain on this earthly plain.
So the unmistakable appearance of Goose at my Solstice celebration
was really quite special. It was a reminder that the Creator is indeed
connected to me, that the Creator hears my voice and is sensitive to my
yearnings. I believe Goose came to tell
me that my supplication had been heard and was being acted upon even when I
could not see it, as I could not see those geese who were calling to me from
the darkness.
Uninspired and peevish as I was at the beginning of my
ritual, the Creator nevertheless revealed itself in a personal and comforting
way A way that not only gave me hope for
my intentions for my family, but hope for the larger world as well. The message:
It is dark, but we are here. The
forces of Goodness, of Family and human connection to the Spirit...we are
here. And we are carrying out the
healing work of the Creator, even when you cannot see us.
And that is definitely a message that I can take forward
into the new year--which will now bear the honorable name of my "Year of
the Goose."
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