Rituals and the Winter Solstice
Today is the winter solstice and the longest night of the year. After this, the days will begin to lengthen, minute by minute, until we reach the longest day of the year, next June. The winter solstice is a turning point, representing rebirth and new beginnings.
This day is also significant to me because thirteen years ago today my mother died after a long struggle with cancer.
Since then it’s been an annual ritual, to observe the Winter Solstice. I always try to take the day off of work and spend some time remembering her, but other than that each year is different. It was actually about 6 years before I had the energy to do anything creative around the solstice.
Rituals are important to the grieving process. We never stop grieving the loss of our loved ones, although the texture and tone of our grief changes over time.
Remembering
December 21, 2010 We were on day five of the vigil and I had been by her bed all morning. In the afternoon Dad took over and I went outside to get some fresh air. There was a lot of snow that year, and the day had turned warm and foggy. I trudged around with my camera for awhile, and then went inside and made tea.
It was almost 3:30pm when Dad called my name in a voice that startled me. Mom's bed was in the living room, next to the wood stove which glowed orange in the cool winter light. I stood next to her feet, and Dad sat next to her head. Her breathing had become loud and ragged. Even now, 13 years later, I can still see the scene clearly in my mind’s eye. I wonder if she could hear what we said to her, and if we said the right things. I remember the conflict of wanting this awful struggle to end and also not wanting her to go.
Finally, it did end, and she did go.
We buried her a few days later, on Christmas Eve, in the little cemetery down the road. It was snowing.
The four foggy, snowy landscape photographs above are the ones I made on that walk I took in the hour before Mom died; the glowing-orange wood fire was in the stove that was next to her bed. These photographs are precious to me, not because they’re stellar images but because they remind me of what matters. When I look at these photos, I remember the details of that day. I remember my beautiful mother, who was a force of nature. I remember how short and precious life is.
If I love, I will grieve; that is the polarity of life. And this is the gift of grief: now I can feel the pain of missing my mom and the exquisite joy of being alive all at once, and I am whole.
