Winter Solstice: The Brightest, Darkest Day

It can only get brighter from here. 

No really, after today’s Winter Solstice, every day will bring more light into our lives until the summer. 

Maybe I love this day so much after decades of depression, I’ve had to make an effort to look for the light. And on this day every single year it is the darkest moment from which things only get brighter. 

It’s a beautiful metaphor and reminder. So that’s why, my dear friend Suzanne’s annual Solstice party is my favorite gathering of the year. It is celebration with great friends, food and merriment. But this year, of course, is like no other. There would be no party. 

But the two of us were determined to mark the day. A few weeks before, we exchanged a flurry of texts about how our two families could gather safely outdoors, and keep this tradition alive, on a smaller simpler scale.  

This year so many things have been moved outside.

As Covid raged, outside was one of the safest places to be. And for me, the most healing. So it was appropriate to mark this darkest moment, of a dark year, outside.

A few simple things remained, our favorite Cheesy Snowman recipe (though this year I made two -- one for our family and one for Suzanne’s so we weren’t eating from the same plate). This year we added a fire pit for warmth and mulled wine (also for “warmth”). 

The kids played in the snow, dropped into snow angels at any patch of untouched snow. Now, the kids and I are just accustomed to just hanging out outside, pulling chairs up six feet apart and settling into this social distance setting with nature as the backdrop. 

It was perfect. And right when the sun set, the kids rang bells and screamed welcoming the light to come and owning the night. 

While I look forward to the days, of more parties, hugs and indoors, I will always cherish this special night on this extraordinary year. 

There is no doubt the dark can be scary. But on nights like this, finding ways to find the bright spots and love despite it, reminds me that there is always hope. 

Or put even more beautifully, by poet Sarah William’s, Twilight Hours: A Legacy Of Verse: 

“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”