What kind of creator envisaged a globe which revolved on a tilting axis?
In a stylised tango, the earth holds herself at a rigid angle to the sun, so that as we turn we are sometimes direct and personal with its rays, sometimes craning away, as if desperate for personal space.
If our earth’s axis were vertical, everywhere would be the same season all the time. Here in the UK we would have all Spring, all the year round. Imagine: eternal bulbs shooting from the ground; eternal new leaves; eternal awakening. Our days and nights would always be a moderate length, and always dependably the same.
Nature would have a bit of timing to sort out: leaf drop, reproduction and so forth;but how grand it would be, never to suffer the dead of winter.
Instead, Mother Earth tilts. And lo: we have change built into our lives here in England. At times it is euphorically Summer, not growing dark until 9 or 10pm; and at times it is deathly dark.
And never darker than last night.
Last night, here in the northern hemisphere, our mother held us the furthest we can be away from the sun. Yet still, gravity ties her to the great star. The Winter Solstice.
The word solstice has become entwined here with that most British of concepts, the Total Beardy Weirdy. To get a handle on this character one has only to pop into Stonehenge of a solstice. The real purpose of Stonehenge, it is thought, is to witness the Winter Solstice sunrise.
This morning at 5am a select group of people boarded a coach in London, bound for the circle of stones. By the time you read this they will have alighted to watch the sun rise at Stonehenge.
They join a glorious hotch-potch of humanity: our new age travelling population; various curious well wishers; and the Druids, of course.
Everyone watches the central altar stone, slaughter stone and heel stone joined by the first rays of sun coming up over the horizon.
The Druids perform a short ceremony.
And then the group gets on the bus to drive back to London again, leaving the crowds of alternative sunseekers behind them.
We love the mystery of the longest night. It’s so long, surely something must happen when we’re asleep; some magic weave its way through the air past our suburban little houses, through the black-damp earth of the fields; surely some ley line or other must still have a vestige of the power it once held for those for whom darkness was all but absolute?
Maybe Father Thames is only sleeping. Maybe the mystery of the tilted axis is still out there, dormant.
The words have inlaid themselves into our language, and not only ours but many languages: for who has not heard of the Long Dark Night of the Soul?
It was a Spaniard who coined the phrase: John of the Cross, a Carmelite priest, back in the 16th century. He wrote a poem depicting a soul’s journey from being at home in one’s body to reaching its creator.
He wrote it imprisoned, during his own dark night. His Carmelite colleagues did not like his revolutionary ideas.
But the phrase has become a familiar term in metaphysics. And one of the great names in psychology, Carl Jung, used it to express a human condition, just as generations before him had.
He himself met a terrible night of the soul when he experienced a schism with his mentor, Sigmund Freud. Freud’s unconscious was a negative place, a centre of repression; but Jung outlined a different unconscious, an endlessly creative being beneath our surface self. The split affected Jung terribly.
But when he emerged, he had mined diamonds from his darkness.
His thoughts run roughly like this: we all know who we are: we might say we are writer, teacher, mother, father, lawyer. We define ourselves by the reflections the world shows us of ourselves.
When those reflections disappear: when cataclysm appears in our life- bereavement, divorce, failure: so do all those comforting definitions of us. And we are set adrift without identity, scrabbling for meaning in a void which seems to have none.
We lose what we see as our identity. We are actually left with nothing but our fundamental self. We face our shadow and work out what lies at our core.
Painful though it is, we can build a new understanding of who we are.
Without the long dark nights we would never have long glorious Summers. Are our planet’s extremes the key to how us humans and our unfathomable unconscious work?
If the cycle of darkness and light works for Mother Earth: is it such a remote possibility that it could be the same for us?
Picture source here
Kate Shrewsday 
I think this is your best post so far. Thanks Kate.
I often wonder why the druids don’t offer a tourist as blood sacrifice to ensure the return of summer
Our druids are harmless these days, Sidey. Remember when Phil met one of the Big Cheese Druids, Arthur Pendragon? Must look that post out. He’s always there at all the big solstice bashes. He used to be called John Rothwell until he changed his name by deed poll. This is how the druids annoy the establishment these days: http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2009/may/03/stonehenge-king-arthur-protest
Damn! and there I was hoping for a little something to add excitement to what is really just a late dawn
Maybe making a tourist called Dawn – um late……….
Drum rolls and cymbal, please….
Bwahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
If there is some sort of spectrum between prose and poetry, your writing often seems to dispense with it altogether. Never more so than in this post, which I love.
Or maybe, as a medievalist who has been collecting Arthurian legend since I was old enough to read, I’m just a sucker for this stuff.
Cheers, Whiskeypants. I think perhaps when the big dark comes we lose our grip on reality just a little, and let the legends in.
Indeed, although I find it more likely to happen when I am mucking about in Ireland than when I am in California.
The legends here require brighter light to come to life.
There’s so much to this post I’m speechless in response, but moved and appreciative. I am fortunate to say that my own “long nights of the soul” have been short-lived, in comparison to John of the Cross or even compared to some dear friends who always tug at my heart with their long and protracted seasons of depression, but surely we do mirror nature. Some of the darkest times have also been the most important seasons in my life–usually in retrospect. I must admit I yearn for a perpetual spring, literally and figuratively, but I know life would hold less mystery. Beautiful perspective on so many things here, Kate. Debra
Thanks Debra. It’s a very old train of thought indeed: but worth saying at a time when, for some, the Christmas lights have lost their sparkle.
Beautifully poignant – especially this time of year. I believe pain to be one of the greatest teachers a person can experience. My former taekwondo instructor (now teaching diving in Bali) used to say “it stops hurting when you die”.
It’s so hard when you’re in the middle of it all, Nicola, isn’t it? But look what Jung came out with. Time to re-read his book, I think 🙂
A thoughtful post, Kate.
Cheers, Tilly. Hope you’re feeling better.
Goddammit Kate, that’s fabulous. Thank you.
Moving, thoughtful, inspiring, comforting- you can do it all 🙂
Fiona, chuffed to hear it struck a chord. Take care x
A very thoughtful post, prompts one to give thought to not only the seasons, but, to consider ourselves in the sense of constant re-birth. Difficult times often bring the best out in us as we learn to cope once again in adversity. There have been a few down moments in my life and each has led to a more satisfying and happier situation in life. I do try to think of difficulties as challenges and opportunities and that attitude is what makes it possible to move on from tough spots.
The seasons are a reflection of our lives and one of the reasons we seem to revitalize each Spring when we see all the life around us being re-born.
Just a wonderful script today, Kate.
Good to be able to put it down on paper. And you put it perfectly:Spring is euphoric precisely because of our own sense of re-birth. A fabulous comment, Lou, thanks:-)
Summer solstice here, so the abundance of light strikes a stark contrast to the darkness you describe. Even our winter nights, often unclouded, can be ablaze with light, and I wonder if we antipodeans are thus denied the invitation to ponder at leisure the invitation inherent in Jung’s darkness in quite the same way. Or perhaps we are simply blinded to the moment that invites. Your lyrical writing on this matter has me pondering as well as wondering!
Perhaps this is just a cultural thing, Wonderingpilgrim: the concept of the long dark night of the soul was, as far as I can research, a European one: it struck a chord because we experience the concrete image of a long dark night, year in, year out. I wonder, whimsically, how the Aboriginals perceive darkness: whether their stories portray it as benign or threatening?
Interesting question, Kate. Darkness here is more often perceived as a respite from the light, natural and artificial. Some of the Dreamtime stories certainly venture into the Jungian realm of shadow and hidden mystery. Your query whether “…some magic weave its way through the air past our suburban little houses, through the black-damp earth of the fields; surely some ley line or other must still have a vestige of the power it once held for those for whom darkness was all but absolute?” resonates with the singing tracks discernible in Aboriginal lore even in urbanised Australia. However, the long dark night of the soul is a reality in spiritual journeys I come across when talking to people of all backgrounds. The writings of St John of the Cross, along with his mentor, St Teresa of Avila, remain treasured resources. It struck me, however, through your powerful prose, that we lack the seasonal long dark night of European winters or its equivalent to serve as a metaphor. Hence a quest for an antipodean one! 🙂
What a fabulous answer! You have taught me bucketloads today, and sent me reaching for my books to find out more. Thank you!
I clicked the ‘Like’ button: But I REALLy liked that post. I’ll trying clicking it a second time.
Regrettably that just ‘unlikes’ the button, Tooty…but I know that you really like it. Thank you 🙂
Beautiful, inspiring write, Kate. I always conjure Mother Theresa with that phrase, I must now question my reasonings. I’ve Jung on my mind lately, your post cements I must read more. The darkness, those dark days that tear us apart do indeed allow us the ability to rise from the proverbial grave, seek a flame and bloom, rise up to face what will become of the sun on a day anew. Peace ~
And to you, Angela 🙂 Thank you for that beautiful comment. I think Jung will make perfect Christmas reading. Mother Theresa did indeed suffer from the Long Dark Night, right through her life. And look at her achievements…
Well done, Kate.
I try to think of the winter solstice as a good thing; things only keep getting brighter and brighter here for us in the northern hemisphere. Here’s to the lightness that is coming, then, and on to the Christmas pudding.
Do you know, Penny, that’s just what Phil says. He says “The lights are drawing out now…” and we all nod sagely. I’ve always found the heart of Winter hard: I love living in this beautiful country but long for the warm sun. So I shall use the Winter months to re-read every piece of Jung I can get my hands on 🙂
Thank the stars for the Wheel that ever turns, bringing us the dark, so that the light shines ever brighter. Beautiful post, Kate. Thank you.
Selena, what a beautiful comment, thank you! Reminds me of that song, Turn, Turn, Turn…
“We define ourselves by the reflections the world shows us of ourselves.
When those reflections disappear: when cataclysm appears in our life- bereavement, divorce, failure: so do all those comforting definitions of us.”
The entirety of this post is wonderful, Kate (you always provoke thought), but that bit reflected in the quote above speaks volumes to me. Thanks.
Karen, thanks. So glad it spoke to you 🙂
There are many mysteries, Kate, to some of which we may find answers, but there will always be much, much more to learn.
You’re right there, Denise 🙂
You have surpassed yourself Kate – what a fabulous piece of prose!
Thanks, Linda:-) As we all know, Long Dark Nights can happen at mIdsummer, too…
Aha! Arthur Pendragon! Yes, the very same shops at Sainsburys. It’s true. I’ve seen him – in full regalia. Sainsburys, Farnborough, Hampshire
By Royal Appointment?
😉
Gracious, there’s a development, Nuvofelt! Fancy going shopping in full regalia! I’d love to know what a druid puts in his basket!
Hey Kate, just a Dark Globe’s Outstanding Artist Awards Update http://thedarkglobe.wordpress.com/2011/12/22/the-quiet-ones-first-dark-globe-artist-awards-update/ with some Info. for Finalists like yourself
Good Luck once again
DarkJade-
Cheers DarkJade 🙂
Walking through my own long dark night of the soul, it is good to know that Summer’s coming. It is hard to define myself as I see myself rather than as the world sees me.
But I try.
Great piece, Kate.
It seems to have bee a struggle since John sat in his Carmelite cell, Andra, and it was going through that pain that brought Jung his incredible insight. So painful, to lose who one is, and to feel adrift. Finding the core self is a lonely journey. I hope the sun appears over the horizon for you sooner rather than later.
Surely it isn’t only all these Druid-in-the-wool fanatics that find a fascination with the Solstice – although with the ways alignments have altered it does seem a bit silly to try and tie them to the way the little rockery at Stonehenge is arranged.
Your post has inspired me to try and envisage a seasonless Earth – and the bind moggles slightly.
Yes, I was having a problem with that during my research…Druid-in-the-wool. You describe them perfectly, Col. You’re right, we are all preoccupied with solstice here: and Stonehenge is just one of our earliest pieces of evidence that we have been so for thousands of years.
I admit to a preoccupation with the points on the compass of the natural year–they seem more trustworthy than a rigidly imposed shadow of a lunar calendar…
Our moment of solstice last night was marked by a sudden and vigorous thunder storm. I like the portent there. There are things I should like to see washed out of my life as I turn towards the light again. What better to clean than a whopping good storm?
The stuff of a Shakespeare play, Cameron. Extremes are refreshing at these times. Interestingly, there was a huge solar storm at the Summer solstice this year, producing dazzling Northern Lights…hmmmm…
I read you a lot and I rarely comment. I always feel intimidated.
This is brilliantly deep. The way Earth turns and nature wonders tells me, and apparently you, that we are small in the grand scheme of, well, everything.
This an excellent post. I think I’ll read it again.
So chuffed you did comment, Lance. I know and enjoy your Twitter persona well 🙂 There is something comforting about being a very small part of something so vast and awesome, isn’t there?
This made me sigh in happiness and have a renewed sense of motivation. Thanks Kate 🙂
Happy Solstice, Angela 😀
I was going to say something serious, but then I saw the name “whiskeypants” in the comments and now I’m laughing.
Seriously though, Kate, you are truly on the mark here.
Oh, you have to go see Whiskeypants, he makes me laugh. Sardonic, dry, witty in a flow-chart kind of way: His name says it all. If you have a second, browse. I love this snippet at http://terminallysnarky.com/2011/11/18/a-helpful-diagram-for-congress/, or his lament for his lost pyjamas at http://terminallysnarky.com/2011/11/16/to-my-blue-polar-bear-pajama-pants/. (He has a new pair now so there’s a happy ending).
We are NOT the labels we wear. Our worth lies far deeper.
Gorgeous post, Kate. The Winter Solstice is lovely to celebrate . . . as our days grow longer . . . with the turning of the wheel.
It’s a message at the heart of your philosophy, isn’t it, Nancy? Thought of you a lot as I wrote it. Thanks.
Beautiful post.
Thanks Vera, and thanks so much for coming to take a look.
Fabulous, Kate. I am comforted knowing that St Teresa of Avila comforted John of Cross – both so brave to tap the soul’s inner resources at a time when they risked all to do so.
I learn bits and pieces about Carl Jung from various facets of life. I wasn’t aware that Freud had such an impact on him. I’m grateful there was a split…my God we’d be stuck playing with our ids! 🙂
😀 I know, Amy and Heaven help us all then! I have resolved to go back and read Jung again in detail. I know there have been many developments since his time: but what a monolith.