In ancient times on the day of the winter solstice, a great log–the Yule Log–would be brought into the main hall and placed in the fire place where it would be lit–and stay lit until it completely burned to ash of its own accord. For as long as the log continued to burn the old year would continue. And when it was at last reduced to ash, the new year would begin.
It was, of course, a time of celebration: the sun had reached the furthest point of its journey south–the nights had reached their longest. And the further north one went, the greater the fear the sun would forever vanish beneath the horizon. But now the light turned north–and day-by-day the darkness fled before it–as just days before the light had fled from darkness.
But it was also a time of contemplation–a time to review the year passing from this earth and to think about the opportunities of the year ahead.
Ursula K. Le Guin captures the spirit of the time in one of her Earthsea novels. Ged, the protagonist, has been on a long voyage across the sea when he comes upon a great floating armada of rafts. For that day–the Day of Sun Return–the people sit in silent contemplation. Then a drum strikes and they dance silently through the night until the dawn in celebration. But they say nothing until the dawn.
The anniversary of Jane’s death was like that for me–a day of contemplation and the deepest mourning. At the dawn of December 11 I began to cry those uncontrolled tears and felt that uncontrolled rage build and overwhelm my sanity. And, for the first time, I let it take its full course.
Most people who have not experienced it believe grief ends–that by some magical process the end of that year of first events and holidays grief transmutes to normalcy. The truth is it appears to be a much longer process than that. For some, it never ends.
We lost my mother-in-law to pulmonary fibrosis five years ago. We lost my mother to Alzheimer’s 22 months ago. We lost my wife to NET 12 months and 12 days ago. We lost a former student to a heart attack barely two weeks ago.
We talk about trying to create more birthdays and less suffering. We talk about a cure for this disease and that disease. We do all that we can. But death is always out there. We can delay it, but we cannot stop it–not yet anyway.
Our lives are but a little space in the eternity of time. But what we do in that little space matters. How we treat each other–both those we know and those we do not–matters. We can make this world a better one–or we can make it worse.
That choice is not in the hands of any god–it is firmly placed in ours. When we take on that responsibility we will have matured into the creatures the universe–and its prime mover–needs us to be.
Happy Day of Sun Return.
