Sunday, December 24, 2017

Sing Yule


Parking lot hearts, Charley Freiberg photo




Sing we the Yuletide-O
Sing the Yule heigh-ho;
Blows, he, the North Wind cold
Blows the Yule nigh-O.

Yule: an old word, co-opted by Christians to mean Christmas, but originally indicating the season of the solstice. In our time, Yule could be said to indicate the western world’s holiday season that begins at the Celtic New Year - Samhain or Hallowe’en, with the Mexican Day of the Dead two days later and then, in the US and Mexico, Thanksgiving Day (Canada’s Thanksgiving is earlier in October) – and usually encompasses Hannukah and a Muslim holiday or two, and continues through Festivus, Christmas, then Kwanzaa and New Year’s Day, or possibly Epiphany, which is the end of the old 12 days of Christmas. During this time of Yule, the holidays, which come from many traditions, share much: they gather together family and friends, touch us with thankfulness for blessings received, celebrate the coming of the light and the miracle of lights and the lengthening days of light, and the blessing of some special births.

It’s the dark time of year and our spirits need a celebration to look forward to, especially one that involves beauty or majesty or a promise or comfort in the cold and dark of the year – or even the simple thrill of an unknown something wrapped with sparkle and cheer, waiting to be opened. The sun retreats early, dusk falls near 4 pm, and only slowly builds back after the solstice. It’s a time when we long for light and warmth and home, and crave a reason to hope; when the giving and receiving of gifts mirrors the ebb and flow of the gifts the earth bestows. It’s the time of year when ritual and mystery lie around every corner, even in the profane world. 

It’s a time when the lighting of candles, the knock of a stranger at the door, the preparation and sharing of special foods that we make only during the Yuletide season all embody special meanings that reach beyond our daily life and reaffirm our connection with the shadows of those who came before us, those who follow in our footsteps, and all who walk the path of life.

Shines, he, the sun high-O
Shines the Yuletide o’er
Silver light, the moon hangs low
She lights Yule to our door.

Yule is the time for telling stories, for tasting the frisson of the dark world our ancestors lived in and which dances just beyond our daily consciousness. It’s the time for ritually recreating the warmth and comfort that keeps us safe and strong. Can you hear the Wild Hunt streaming by in the darkness? Shut the door, shut the door, poke the Yule log to burn brighter! Does the stranger at the door come bearing a gift? Good luck for the new year, let him in! Will we survive the darkest nights? Light the candles with reverence and hope. Welcome the spirits of the season, with their tales of what has been, what is now, what may be yet to come. Ring out the solstice bells of welcome, pile the bonfires high.

Once a year, we’re given an excuse to make time for friends and family who we otherwise may rarely see, to give bountifully to those in need, to engender cheer and kindness with all we meet, be they friend or foe or stranger. Once a year, we can bring our ancestors back into the living world for a few moments, by telling their stories, sharing our thoughts with them. Once a year, we can leave enmity and strife outdoors, and light our hearts and use our voices to fill the cold air with wishes of peace and joy to all men. Once a year, we can say “Happy holidays” to one and all, and know that men of goodwill will embrace the wish and feel a warm return of the sentiment. 

Once a year, we need not be embarrassed by sentimentality and kindnesses given and received. Once a year, we’re given permission to seek comfort and share joy, without excuses. Once a year – if we’re lucky – the world will turn, the oil will last, the spirits will warn us in time, our ancestors will look upon us benignly, the holy birth will bring us a chance of redemption, the Wild Hunt will pass us by, the Yule log will last long enough and leave a faggot remaining to light next year’s hearth, the first to cross our doorstep in the new year will be a dark-haired man bearing a gift, our families and friends will all be gathered and in peaceful communion with each other, the birth of Messiah and Prophet will bring rejoicing, and the sun will grow strong and steady again.

Once a year, for a night, or a few days, we’ll feel peace. And if we’re lucky, Twitter will be down, and we’ll actually have peace. And please, save me a latke, some corton, and a slice of French-Canadian tourtiere. 

Enter, Yule, upon our floor
And we be poor no more
Sing we the Yuletide –O
Sing the Yule heigh-ho.

Printed in the Concord Monitor, 24 December 2017, as “Light of the Yule.”

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