This may come as a surprise to you, but I am a deeply spiritual person. I’ve tried and tired, but I can’t find an appropriate label for my beliefs. Also, with an occasional exception, I don’t talk about it publicly, because it’s a long and hard conversation fraught with assumptions and prejudice. Even as I write this, I’m realizing that for the past 8 years I’ve kept it tucked away in my head and in my heart. Silent. Hidden. Protected from the dismissive reactions of those closest to me. But through the discouragement and without an appropriate name, my spirituality is still there. At my core.
I believe in fate. I believe that some force(s) larger than me controls much of our world. I believe in free will. I believe that if you are doing what you’re supposed to be doing, that life will flow. The flow is not always easy, but the flow is gentle and comfortable and even in the challenging times, it has a familiar rhythm and always returns to center. I believe in deep connections between people; connections that stretch across lifetimes. I believe in karma. I believe that trees are more alive than we realize. I believe that the natural world is more beautiful than anything humans could ever create. I believe in the ebb and flow of our world, on the largest scale and the most miniature. In spiritual moments, I experience a fullness in my chest that matches the fullness I feel in love. That feeling tells me to stop, be silent and look around. There is something afoot. Something bigger than me. Something important. But only if I stop and acknowledge it will I learn the lesson, notice the sign, see the connection.
This weekend, between Cate’s always-incredible Solstice post, much time alone, a relaxed afternoon with a dear friend and her wonderful husband, a couple of intensely meaningful emails with a fabulous friend, and a moment of kismet in the knitblog community, I have noticed that my life is indeed following the path of the sun.
As I commented to Cate’s post the other night:
“I intend for this longest night to also be my darkest night, so that tomorrow’s sun will bring the strength I need to create peace, security, safety, and stability in my world, as well as to protect myself and my boy from the harsh winds. To take this unexpected turn of the wheel and use the opportunity to see who I am, who I am alone, who I am without the trappings, and to love that woman. To pour all of my love into myself and my child. I’m ready to emerge from this darkness and walk that path, slowly and with a full heart.”
Already, it feels that I’m on the right path. For the first time in years, I feel content. At peace. Aligned.
Which is why earlier tonight, when I read the most recent post from Celtic Memory Yarns, I immediately clicked through to the live webcast of the Solstice ceremony at Newgrange. The webcast is nearly an hour long, but worth every minute. If you’re impatient, you could scroll to about 1/2 way, but you’ll miss the building excitement and the sense of relief when the sun shines down the passageway into the tomb. For the last couple years, I’ve entered the lottery to be invited into the tomb on the winter Solstice; but with 28,000+ applicants, it’s really just a pipe dream. And yet, I apply. Because someday … someday … I will be there to see the dawn sun shine on the ancient stone spirals that are tattooed over my spine, and illuminate the tomb of my ancestors.
I have no idea why, but Newgrange is an intensely spiritual place for me. I stumbled upon it in early 2002 and from the moment I entered the Bru na Boinne, it gripped my soul. I’ve traveled a bit, and been awestruck by many natural and human wonders, but Newgrange is different. Something draws me there. I will probably never understand it, and perhaps that’s for the best, but it is powerful and mystical.
Which is why tonight, as I look back on the past couple months, I can see that my life is flowing again. I have beautiful, meaningful experiences every day. My heart is full of hope and wonder. This Solstice is my time of rebirth, relief, peace and joy.
If you made it this far and my vague ramblings didn’t quite add up, perhaps these three solid facts will make it clear:
1) Just when I started to get bored of the Solstice webcast and was about to click away, the announcer mentioned that two bats have taken up residence in passage chambers at Newgrange (yeah, I smiled and then I cried a little. thank you, bats);
2) I’m back on the moon cycle, and
3) Yesterday, at Alison’s house refuge, I defeated the evil set-up row on the Rhiannon sock, and then knit an entire repeat of the charts.
Welcome back, mojo.
And to welcome Yule, I leave you with one of my favorite Solstice poems. Xifey was a member of the Revels cast for many years, and this poem is something beautiful she introduced me to:
The Shortest Day
By Susan Cooper
And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, reveling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us - listen!
All the long echoes, sing the same delight,
This Shortest Day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And now so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome Yule!
