The night before Yultide and time of winter solstice 2024

 

Winter Solstice 2024 happens on Dec. 21 at 4:20 am EST (This corresponds to Saturday, December 21, 2024 at 09:20 UTC)

2 pm shadows cast northerly on 12/19/14

Then there's the spiritual part of it.

Our whole planet changes it's orientation to the sun, with the furthest point reached at Solstice.

I ask you to observe that moment as a stopping time place for yourself as well.
You could stand at attention...lie down, sit in meditation...just something different.  Salutations of some kind are due.

See what happens.  What is your experience?

I have often marked on a wall or floor where I live, the point that is the furthest the sun reaches on that day, at that time...as it's at its furthest declination to the earth.  It returns yearly to that same point on the floor...if I calculate the time right.

Just think of Newgrange and Stonehenge...yep.  Those astronomers knew how to calculate the time just fine.  Salutations to our wise ancestors. 

Celtic symbols.

Newgrange, Ireland

Inside Newgrange, from We Love Ireland on Facebook

Stonehenge, UK, by Stonehenge Dronscapes Facebook, Nov. 2024

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TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE YULETIDE

Twas the night before Yuletide and all through the glen

Not a creature was stirring, not a fox, not a hen.

A mantle of snow shone brightly that night

As it lay on the ground, reflecting moonlight.

The faeries were nestled all snug in their trees,

Unmindful of flurries and a chilly north breeze.

The elves and the gnomes were down in their burrows,

Sleeping like babes in their soft earthen furrows.

When low! The earth moved with a thunderous quake,

Causing chairs to fall over and dishes to break.

The Little Folk scrambled to get on their feet

Then raced to the river where they usually meet.

“What happened?” they wondered, they questioned, they probed,

As they shivered in night clothes, some bare-armed, some robed.

“What caused the earth’s shudder? What caused her to shiver?”

They all spoke at once as they stood by the river.

Then what to their wondering eyes should appear

But a shining gold light in the shape of a sphere.

It blinked and it twinkled, it winked like an eye,

Then it flew straight up and was lost in the sky.

Before they could murmur, before they could bustle,

There emerged from the crowd, with a swish and a rustle,

A stately old crone with her hand on a cane,

Resplendent in green with a flowing white mane.

As she passed by them the old crone’s perfume,

Smelling of meadows and flowers abloom,

Made each of the fey folk think of the spring

When the earth wakes from slumber and the birds start to sing.

“My name is Gaia,” the old crone proclaimed

in a voice that at once was both wild and tamed,

“I’ve come to remind you, for you seem to forget,

that Yule is the time of re-birth, and yet…”

“I see no hearth fires, hear no music, no bells,

The air isn’t filled with rich fragrant smells

Of baking and roasting, and simmering stews,

Of cider that’s mulled or other hot brews.”

“There aren’t any children at play in the snow,

Or houses lit up by candles’ glow.

Have you forgotten, my children, the fun

Of celebrating the rebirth of the sun?”

She looked at the fey folk, her eyes going round,

As they shuffled their feet and stared at the ground.

Then she smiled the smile that brings light to the day,

“Come, my children,” she said, “Let’s play.”

They gathered the mistletoe, gathered the holly,

Threw off the drab and drew on the jolly.

They lit a big bonfire, and they danced and they sang.

They brought out the bells and clapped when they rang.

They strung lights on the trees, and bows, oh so merry,

In colors of cranberry, bayberry, cherry.

They built giant snowmen and adorned them with hats,

Then surrounded them with snow birds, and snow cats and bats.

Then just before dawn, at the end of their fest,

Before they went homeward to seek out their rest,

The fey folk they gathered ‘round their favorite oak tree

And welcomed the sun ‘neath the tree’s finery.

They were just reaching home when it suddenly came,

The gold light returned like an arrow-shot flame.

It lit on the tree top where they could see from afar

The golden-like sphere turned into a star.

The old crone just smiled at the beautiful sight,

“Happy Yuletide, my children,” she whispered. “Good night.”

Poem author C.C. Williford

Today on Open Yesterday's Pages: Pan Am and the flying machines

and The Louisiana Purchase