smokingboot

So, light flickering in the grass under the pear tree, which itself sways, dressed with my favourite Brigid's cross of straw and wool and corn and clay...

I have toasted the Good People with whisky, and my cats were with me, Ralik taking it all very seriously in the ancestral tradition of familiars, generations of black cats who hung out with seriously disturbed medieval bagwomen, wondering what the hell was going on and when food would be arriving.

Renewal. Not yet, this is still the longest night, but the sun will rise.

This is supposed to be the nadir of the year, when everything is utterly dead and the sacred child, be it Jesus or St Brigid (there is a legend which claims St Brigid as Jesus' twin in the womb)boy or girl, is a burgeoning spark in the womb of Ubergoddessmum, whoever you name her.

Some celebrate the daughter of light's birthday on December 13th, feast of Lucina, where in certain lands little girls wear distinctly worrying crowns of lit candles on their heads. The son of light's birthday celebration has become a big thing, and we all know it very well. But this is not about boy or girl really; it's about the return of the light, in the sky, on the land, in the mind and heart and soul. The touch of the divine reaching out to say; I will always be back. Never doubt me, through darkness and light, setting and rising, right by your side, right here where you can always reach me.

It does not feel like a dead time; the touch of a knife on my skin, the scar on my arm, reminds me that death has been close by in 2005. I detest death, he takes beauty out of my world. But he was a gentleman this year, he gave me lots of warning so he would not have to come too close, and surprised me with a needed gift; with expert and tender hands, he sundered me from a poisonous shadow, so clearly that scythe is good for something. The grass is green even in winter, the wind flourishes above me, the pear tree shakes, and the candle burns steady.

I close my eyes and almost see my old skin sloughed, lying on the grass. It has caused me nothing but trouble; first the melanoma, then the psoriasis, skin rubbed raw and scratched, mask-made and marred, now peeled away. I am glad to be rid of it, glad to feel myself again. I will touch other dreams tonight, sensual and predatory, delicious flames in the dark. Dangerous perhaps, but I don't mind for now; dangerous things deserve their time, and then the sun will rise.

The mist is so deep and black, only a few street lamps and windows shine, and they seem far off and lost, candle gone, pear tree still, night complete.

I will not forget this Yule.