Winter Solstice Greetings!

On this shortest day and longest night of the year, especially in my native northern clime, I must honor ancient traditions and celebrate the turning of the Great Wheel. And return of the light!

NOTE: I’ll continue the blog series on my return to Crete next Saturday, with a visit to ancient Roman Gortys and arrival in Heraklion.

Long before Christmas celebrations stepped in to absorb pagan festivals of winter solstice, Europeans from Greece on up into Nordic lands honored their deities of winter and petitioned with ceremonies the return of the sun and longer days. Here in the Pacific Northwest, in the “far corner” of the western U.S., we hunker down during the gloomy days when sunset arrives at 4:00 pm, and rain clouds make it dark even during the short days. “Forest bathing” helps me stay grounded, but more light would help!

 It’s no accident that Europeans from earliest times, especially those in northern latitudes, developed rituals and celebrations to lighten the gloom and bring back the sun and essential fertility of the earth. I make a practice of lighting candles on my garden shrines to honor the nature spirits, along with modern holiday lights festooning the house to brighten our moods.

Most of us are familiar with the Northern European Yule traditions that were folded into common Christmas lore.  According to https://www.bbc.co.uk/religion/religions/paganism/holydays/wintersolstice.shtml

“The Pagan celebration of Winter Solstice (also known as Yule) is one of the oldest winter celebrations in the world.

“Ancient people were hunters and spent most of their time outdoors. The seasons and weather played a very important part in their lives. Because of this many ancient people had a great reverence for, and even worshipped the sun. The Norsemen of Northern Europe saw the sun as a wheel that changed the seasons. It was from the word for this wheel, houl, that the word yule is thought to have come. At mid-winter the Norsemen lit bonfires, told stories and drank sweet ale.

“The ancient Romans also held a festival to celebrate the rebirth of the year. Saturnalia ran for seven days from the 17th of December. It was a time when the ordinary rules were turned upside down. Men dressed as women and masters dressed as servants. The festival also involved decorating houses with greenery, lighting candles, holding processions and giving presents.” [Later Romans honored an incarnation of the Greek sun god Helios, here in the sanctuary at Bath in present-day England.]

“The Winter Solstice falls on the shortest day of the year (21st December) and was celebrated in Britain long before the arrival of Christianity. The Druids (Celtic priests) would cut the mistletoe that grew on the oak tree and give it as a blessing. Oaks were seen as sacred and the winter fruit of the mistletoe was a symbol of life in the dark winter months.

“It was also the Druids who began the tradition of the yule log. The Celts thought that the sun stood still for twelve days in the middle of winter and during this time a log was lit to conquer the darkness, banish evil spirits and bring luck for the coming year.

“Many of these customs are still followed today. They have been incorporated into the Christian and secular celebrations of Christmas.”

Thor and I were lucky enough to travel in England visit the famous site of Stonehenge, the circle of huge stones aligned with the seasonal movements of the sun. The winter and summer solstices are especially important in its alignments, when rituals have honored the seasonal gifts.

Before visiting Stonehenge, I didn’t realize that its location in Salisbury Plain was an important burial destination of the ancient world. The famous stone circle—incidentally, not built by the Druids, but in stages by earlier people—is surrounded by burial mounds and barrows. Thor and I hiked over the fields past some of these mounds, making our own pilgrimage to the site that has been sacred since prehistoric times, and only then did I appreciate the setting and its significance. For thousands of years, people made the pilgrimage from all over Europe to bring their dead to be buried within sight of the Stonehenge circle.

Scientists now think that the site evolved over about 10,000 years, and probably began as wooden posts, with the present-day stone circles built in a period between 5,000 and 4,000 years ago.  The large stones in the outer ring, the Sarsens, probably came from Marlborough Downs, about 20 miles away. But the smaller Bluestones in the interior came from Wales, quite a distance to transport these huge boulders, and no one knows how it was done. These Bluestones were considered by some to have special healing properties.

There is certainly something magical in the place and structure—even skeptical scientist Thor admitted it! This time of year, Thor—despite his Norwegian heritage as the son of immigrant Odd Hansen—gets really anxious for more light. One year he hacked away at my bamboo privacy hedge in order to get more winter sun into our sheltered back yard (not a popular move with me). Another year, he decided to build a “Thorection” on top of our garage – a deck that would let him get closer to open sky and whatever winter light was available.

We’ll climb up there again this solstice evening to light candles and petition the return of the light. We’ll also carry candles down into our wild creek ravine to throw sticks into “the River Styx” to carry away what we’d like to discard from the old year (including a gaggle of malevolent politicians).

On his rooftop platform, Thor included a wooden plaque acknowledging the inevitable turnings of the wheel of time and a nod to “Ozymandias” by Percy B. Shelley: “Erected by Thor, son of Odd, in the fifth year of the reign of Obama. Look upon my work, ye mighty, and despair.”

As for me, I miss the group I belonged to, since dispersed, that organized winter and summer solstice celebrations. Our Winter Solstice ceremonies, including a bonfire and a Yule log, singing, and the men “storming” the ceremony with a tree to pursue the women around the circle, chanting “Hoof and horn, hoof and horn, all that dies will be reborn.” We aimed to honor ancient rituals tied to renewing the fertility of the earth with the changing seasons. Plus, we generated joy and personal renewal to last out the dark days.

From Wikipedia: “Scholars have connected the month event and Yule time period to the Wild Hunt (a ghostly procession in the winter sky), the god Odin (who is attested in Germanic areas as leading the Wild Hunt)…. The events of Yule are generally held to have centered on Midwinter (although specific dating is a matter of debate), and feasting, drinking, and sacrifice were involved…. The traditions of the Yule log, Yule goat, Yule boar still reflected in the Christmas ham, Yule singing, and others stem from Yule customs.”

In previous blog posts, I’ve written about my travels around Delphi, Greece, and the rituals honoring Dionysos, who ruled there during the winter months.

A scene in my novel-in-progress, THE ARIADNE DISCONNECT, describes a new incarnation of the ancient winter “Wild Hunt” by my near-future Corybantes, women eco-warriors, who have included my character Peter Mitchell in their wild celebrations:

“Get you lazy ass out of bed!”

“Shit! Who…?” Peter snapped upright beside Ariadne, blinking groggily into torchlight wavering over the rock walls.

Damiana kicked his foot through the fur covers. “Up, man! Corybantes heading out on the hunt.”

“What the fuck?” He groaned. “What time is it?”

Beside him, Ariadne stirred, made a muffled sound of protest.

Damiana poked him with something sharp.

“Ow! Damn it.”

     “We got to kill that wild boar been tearing up the fields. Catch him at dawn.” She dropped something clattering to the floor.

Peter craned to look, rubbing his eyes. A spear? He shook his head, dropped back into the warmth, and nestled against Ariadne’s back. “Go knock yourselves out.”

Damiana grabbed his arm and pulled him out into the chilly air. “You need to come now. Show I and I those balls you so proud of.”

Stumbling, cursing, he fumbled into clothes and boots. Was finally standing outside the cavern in the patchy snow, yawning and gripping a spear. In the vague pre-dawn light, a cluster of fur-clad Corybantes with their eye-in-the-spiral headbands raised their spears and broke out into wolf cries fogging the cold air. Damiana, also in furs, threw back her head to join the ruckus. She didn’t need a headband, the neo-tribal scarring on her forehead displaying its own spiral design.

“Jesus, my head.” Peter grimaced and rubbed his throbbing temples. Felt like a hangover on overdrive, though he hadn’t had a drop the night before. Maybe he’d gone a bit too far, trying to channel that healing energy for Ariadne. But she’d needed it, wouldn’t take any for herself unless he made her.

“Here. Chew this.” Damiana thrust a string-wrapped wad of some kind of leaves at him.

He gave it a dubious look, then stuck it into his mouth and chewed. What the hell. Some of the warrior gals were chewing, too. After a few bitter spurts, he swallowed, his head starting to clear.  He examined the spear he was gripping, wicked sharp metal tip, and a short cross piece near the business end.

“Pig sticker. Cross piece keep that boar from charging up at you once he get the shaft. Aim for the heart.”

“Terrific. And we’re using spears instead of rifles why…?”

“Ritual, man. Get with the program here. You got to prove you self, some of the warriors, they talking why they keeping this man here? Big feast, ceremony coming up tonight. Show they you juice.”

Even in his blurry state, Peter took her point. The resentments stirring around Cassie included him. Time to remind them he was committed. He snorted. Commitment. His old bugaboo. Surely he’d done enough for the Movement and Ariadne to put that to rest, but these wild Amazon women were their own story—

“Aaww-oooooh!” Damiana howled and nudged him, raising her spear to the warriors.

And suddenly Peter was grinning, raising his spear, feeling the juice—his own, whatever the hell herb it was he was chewing—rising on a surge of fierce joy. “Aaww-ooooh!” And the hunting hounds were all howling now, too, quite a party.

“Pame! Pame!” Let’s go!

And they’re off, any shreds of “hello, this is stupid” left behind as they race behind the hounds down the rocky, brush-clad slope toward the strengthening glow behind the horizon. Into a dip of crunchy snow, white crystals flying, stinging his cheeks. Around a stand of scrubby pines. Hounds baying, Corybantes howling, threshing ahead of him, and on another spurt of bitter herb, Peter swells bigger than life on a rush of pure adrenaline. His legs pump effortlessly, overtaking women warriors, catching up to Damiana. Catching her gleaming grin.

“Hold back!” she yells. “Follow they lead!” She points her spear toward two Corybantes veering right into a dip and a dense stand of trees and brush. Somewhere in the thicket, the baying hounds are ratcheting up the urgency. “He in there!”

“I’m on it!” Peter grips his spear tighter, ignoring Damiana and plunging toward the thicket and the cacophony of howling. And a shrill squeal from the boar. “Heee-yaaah!”

As he plunges down the rocky slope, his legs are possessed of uncanny strength and agility, leaping around stones, plowing through another snowy dip, flying him toward the beast. The ululating cries of the Corybantes swell behind him, around him, and the power of the sacred mountain flushes up through him on another burst of bitter herb juice. He’s no longer Peter, no longer mortal,  but an elemental force of ancient ritual on the hunt.

“Aaww-ooooh! Bromios!” he howls, and he can feel himself swelling, growing, melding with the ancient Winter God of Parnassos that he vaguely remembers hearing Ariadne whisper something about during the night. He is the Winter God, Dionysos, racing down the mountainside with his wild maenads, wild Corybantes on the hunt, ready to tear apart the prey with his bare hands and dance wild worship of the Old Ones. The hounds are baying, howling, the boar’s squealing as Peter flies through the brush, snow flying around his churning legs, and a fierce ecstasy carries him on. He tears through an ivy-covered bush, vines catching around his head in a crazy crown and trailing after him.

He’s racing around stunted trees now. Crashing, commotion up ahead. Into an open brushy space, and the hounds have the boar surrounded, pushing in to nip at its hindquarters. The beast turns and plants himself, piggy eyes fixing on Peter rushing through the brush. Red, he swears those eyes are glowing red rage. And something in Peter answers on another powerful surge of glory in the hunt.

“Ohi! Perimenete! No, wait!” A voice from the side jolts Peter, as one of the women warriors darts in from the right to throw her spear past him at the boar. It strikes the beast in the shoulder, but gets knocked out as the boar veers to attack the Corybant. She leaps to the side as a stream of red splashes down her leg from the boar’s sharp tusk.

“Back, you!” It’s Damiana, pushing past the wounded warrior to jab at the beast.

It squeals in fury and turns toward her, just as she slips in the churned mud.

“Here, you fucker! You’re mine! Bromios!” Peter is beyond thinking, beyond knowing what he’s shouting. The boar veers toward him, breath pluming, eyes glinting, he’s huge, the mythical beast of the mountain, pawing the mud. And launching himself straight toward Peter.

He laughs in maniacal glee and plants himself, spear aimed toward the spot he knows, ancient voices rising in a babble inside him, and they’ve done this before, he knows the heart strike, and he pivots with the beast’s charge. Keeps his spear braced and pointed toward that spot as the boar charges in flung mud and snow and savage rage.

The impact almost knocks Peter off his feet. He stumbles back with the force of the charge, keeping the spear in the boar’s chest as they crash together backwards through the brush. A vague sense of warriors leaping aside and crying out. But Peter is  rock, solid, gripping the spear as the furious boar charges upward on the shaft, burying itself deeper, slashing tusks whipping side to side to get at Peter and gore him, but the cross piece catches the beast and they’re locked together in the ultimate deadly dance. With a final thrust, the boar pushes them back again as Peter stumbles, then braces. A last furious squeal. The beast collapses at Peter’s feet.

He shoves the spear one more time for good measure into the stilled boar, then stumbles back, staring down at the monster at his feet. “Holy shit.”

Then a savage jubilation rises in him again, and he throws up his arms to the sky. “Yes!”

“Bromios! Bromios!” Voices surround him, ululating cries.

He swings around, ivy still trailing off his head, to stare at the Corybantes raising their spears to him.

“Dionysos! Bromios!” More cries. “Ivy-crowned!” they shout in Greek. They pound spear butts on the ground, baring their teeth and howling.

Again the power swells in him as he chomps on the bitter herb and feels its juice filling him, filling the world as he throws out his arms to embrace it. Embrace them all. More swelling, stiffening, strains at his pants. “Aaaww-oooh!” he howls back at the warriors.

“Here, you got enough, mon!” Damiana is suddenly beside him, plucking the soggy leaf chew from his mouth. “Down, boy!” She’s laughing.

And Peter’s laughing, too, sucking in great breaths of the bracing mountain air and puffing it out in plumes. Slowly the crazy drains from his quivering legs.

He blinks. “Hoo, boy.”

*****

Bright blessings to all, as we ride the turning of the year’s wheel!

*****

You will find The Rambling Writer’s blog posts here every Saturday. Sara’s latest novel from Book View Cafe is available in print and ebook: The Ariadne Connection.  It’s a near-future thriller set in the Greek islands. “Technology triggers a deadly new plague. Can a healer find the cure?”  The novel has received the Chanticleer Global Thriller Grand Prize and the Cygnus Award for Speculative Fiction. Sara has recently returned from another research trip in Greece and is back at work on the sequel, The Ariadne Disconnect. Sign up for her quarterly email newsletter at www.sarastamey.com