As an adult, drifting away from the family in which I was raised and their tattered traditions (which drifted apart as we all did), I am not prone to celebrations. I don’t embrace holidays other than for their ability to break the monotony of the standard work week; I am always in favor of an extra day off. But I find myself drawn to the solstices, those rare but constant and dependable days of delicate balance. The longest night, the longest day, those moments at which the balance tips. Tomorrow will be a slight bit more day time. Tonight the night stretches on.
I take a moment to balance the solstice within me, to seek a tipping point inside myself towards the light.
The weight of the holidays is light on this darkest of nights, as there are no expectations coming from either family of origin. The meaning of solstice is only what I’ve made of it, alone, and while that is a lonely tradition, a lonely holiday, it is one that provokes no confusion at all. The absence of expectation is rare. The absence of wanting things to be other than they are is also rare.