Solstice

T was rolling up the living room rug when I entered.  I had been greeted at the door by K with a hug and by an unknown Indian or Pakistani gent who smiled delightedly and said, "Welcome, come in!" as if he were the host and I his most honored guest.

I had been driving for 45 minutes from the late closing at the library, through the canyons of moving steel and roaring concrete, following the river of red tail lights.  I left the highway with relief and sailed through the downtown and over the Hawthorne bridge, planning the best possible route to Mt Tabor.  But I'd forgotten about Peacock Lane and the throngs of sightseers.  The walkers weren't so bad:  they came in chunks, like a nerve impulse through the sodium-potassium pump.  You could drive between them.  But the people in cars, just like the the people in the mall parking lots, gave no space and no quarter.  They were on their mission:  to see the lights from the comfort of their own cars.   They didn't care about the exhaust they were pumping out or the exhaust they were breathing or the other drivers who just wanted to get on down the road.  They sat in their queues, idling and blocking the road.

I made it past, grumbling to myself, and thought, "I have to make sure to take another route home from the party."  D called just after that:  it was his 3rd holiday party in 3 nights, and he was grumpy because he had to bus and because I was late, and the rooms were claustrophobic and people were standing in groups and blocking access to food and doorways.  Sort of a party version of Peacock Lane.  Great, I thought.

And then, I was greeted with delight, T smiled up at me from the floor, K told me where to find D but suggested I get some food first, and I had entered into the light and cheer of the annual Solstice Party.

D had brought the candles and a bottle of wine for our contribution.  I had just started in on my plate of food (salads and quinoa:  this being a UU event, meat was not on the potluck menu), when T started herding us all into the living/dining area.  It was time for the candle lighting ceremony.

I found a chair to rest my tired self, and continued to eat while T was reminding everyone of the routine:  be mindful of the fire, try to not drip wax (she's finding driblets in June), be safe.  She was moving around the rooms, turning out lights. A gentlemen with a basket of candles came through, handing out to those in need.  D had found me and was standing close enough that I heard him say loudly and curtly, "I have one in my hand, sir."  It was his impatient voice and I sighed internally.  I really didn't want this negative energy.

It was time to put out the tree, which was an artful collection of bare branches, arranged in an enormous copper pot and encircled in wide golden ribbons and small white lights, with shiny round gold and silver balls hanging from the branches.  The lights were out, except for the fireplace and the candle T held.  The tree continued to twinkle, though, as the balls reflected the fireplace.

M played his 30-year song, written for his not-yet-born daughter and sung every year since.  Towards the end, the group knew the chorus well enough to join in.  "I love you like the thunder, like the mountains."  I set down my plate and reached for D's hand.  He held mine, massaging with his thumb.  I thought, good, we are being quiet and loving together.  This is what we want.

Then the ritual began.  T held her lit candle upright, the person next to her dipped his wick in the flame and said a word about winter.  "Icicles."  One by one, the candles were lit and the words and phrases spoken.  "Bright leaves frozen in puddles;"  "snowshoe trails;" "cold air in my lungs all day;" "sledding;"  "bird nests showing in bare branches;"  "snowflakes;" "sun sparkling on the frozen pond;"  The light was growing, the words kept coming, each one adding a layer of memory and anticipation.   Last year I said "making s'mores at the fireplace."  This year I said, "the return of spring birds."   The people evoked smells, sights, experiences, feelings, sounds.  I thought, I should have said "the smell of daphne."  But it was all okay....the individual offerings were not the point, the sharing and the increasing of light was the point.

It was time to go.  The lights were back on, the last song sung, the last poem read.  I had finished my dinner, I had an editing job to finish, and D was still grumpy.  I put away my plate, gathered up my coat and purse, and stopped to say goodbye to T.  "Thank you so much:  I have been so busy with working 3 jobs and trying to do the holiday stuff, it was good to spend a few peaceful moments thinking about things that really matter.  Thank you for creating the space for that."  She listened, concerned about my work situation, her white fluffy hair framing her thin face, with the wide smile, blue eyes, pointed nose, just enough wrinkles to show her wisdom.  Then she smiled in gratitude for my gratitude.  A hug, and we're out the door.