7:26, sunrise.
Winter solstice. It happened at 4:02 a.m. this morning and by chance, I was not asleep then, though my thoughts weren't on the dark skies outside, but on food.
I thought I was so clever: I submitted a long grocery list to the store on Sunday, expecting to beat the Christmas rush. Delivery on Monday would be splendid. I suppose many people were thinking the same thing, because there were no delivery or even pick up slots available for Sunday, Monday, or even Tuesday.
Well that wont do! The only solution is to click "refresh" often and if you are lucky, you'll chance upon an opening. And so I click, at 8 p.m, at 10, at 11:30. Then at midnight and at 1 and 2 and many times in between. Sometime in the hour of the solstice a slot becomes available and I quickly click to confirm. A morning delivery. Indeed, right around the hour of sunrise!
I admit, that's not a restful way to launch a new week, an especially busy new week, but one has to make sacrifices for the safety of home deliveries. I am grateful that the holiday week will have me cooking up a storm in the kitchen after all.
Groceries are attended to. Good timing -- it's now the hour where I sit down with my two friends -- one living in the Florida time zone and the other in New Mexico - for our solstice breakfast together.
Winter solstice is nondenominational. Grounded in fact and spirited by traditions. It's a beautiful day: introspective, hope-filled, calm. So perfect for a good, long chat. A bowl of my usuals, a strong cup of coffee and I'm ready for the arrival of the grand kids.
We play, we read, they snack -- all that.
But it is also a school day for Snowdrop. I notice that the little girl is completely disengaged during the first lesson, but radiantly joyful for the second. There are reasons for it, but in a sense, they're irrelevant. What's telling is that Snowdrop is not a plod-along type who will dutifully do what is asked of her and give the project her utmost attention no matter what. On the other hand, if the stars are aligned, or at least not crossed, then she is more than 100% on board, giving it her all and then some.
(Sparrow is mildly interested in the story book the teacher was reading, but ultimately prefers to retreat into Snowdrop's big-girl space and play with her tiny Lego Friends setups while his sister is "in school.")
No outdoor play today. It felt as if it might rain and toward the end of the day it does indeed start to rain.
4:25, sunset. Shortest day. Or so they say. With the afternoon clouds came early darkness.
It's the kind of grayness that makes you hum bars of the carol In the Bleak Midwinter. This one:
But the grayness of this shortest day doesn't pull you into an abyss of despair. Perhaps it even does the opposite. Someone once commented about this song -- (the) carol doesn't shout from the rooftops about Christmas cheer; instead, it focuses on the simplest yet truest gift of all, love.
[And by the way, this carol is nearly always included in the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols broadcast each year from Kings College in Cambridge. Nearly every year I listen to this broadcast on December 24th. If you're curious how it may be presented this year, read about it here.]
A light drizzle outside knocks out the possibility of the walk that we typically try to fit in toward dusk. And I'm glad. I decided that in my last two weeks with the kids something has to give. The day is not long enough for grandchildren, and holiday preparations, and writing daily posts, and cooking warm meals every night, and 10 000 steps of walking. I'll be satisfied with 5 000 and make it a New Year's resolution to go back to 10 000 starting January 1st. Why have a New Year if you can't make resolutions for it!
With love...
