There is a sacred stillness in the air.
It has the silky, eternal feel of an eclipse, that sacred pause as the Earth reflects upon herself, looking at her own Beauty, almost in a sense of wonderment: the trees with their leaves now shorn, everything stripped down and bare, bereft as when Demeter loses Persephone.
She takes this pause and looks carefully around her in appreciation and awe and soon, in a day or two, she will pick up the mantle of winter and life will resume once more.
But for now, all is silent and still, all is Holy...this is the holy season, not the frenetic grasping of tinsel and oftentimes desperate bonhomie that we frequently characterize as "Christmas".
Which can fall outside the range of the Sacred Solstice, in every way.
It has the silky, eternal feel of an eclipse, that sacred pause as the Earth reflects upon herself, looking at her own Beauty, almost in a sense of wonderment: the trees with their leaves now shorn, everything stripped down and bare, bereft as when Demeter loses Persephone.
She takes this pause and looks carefully around her in appreciation and awe and soon, in a day or two, she will pick up the mantle of winter and life will resume once more.
But for now, all is silent and still, all is Holy...this is the holy season, not the frenetic grasping of tinsel and oftentimes desperate bonhomie that we frequently characterize as "Christmas".
Which can fall outside the range of the Sacred Solstice, in every way.