Just short of two weeks from now, the Northern Hemisphere will experience the Winter Solstice. The shortest day, the longest night, the beginning of winter. Drinking mulled wine, making gingerbread, lighting a Yule log, feasting, and several other rituals coincide with celebrations of the Winter Solstice. Several ancient traditions, as well as many significant modern cultural practices, are rooted in observances of the Winter Solstice. The alignment of stones in Stonehenge mark both Winter Solstice and Summer Solstice. Many celebratory Winter Solstice traditions involve fire and light, welcoming the sun’s return to its realm and celebrating renewal and rebirth. From a particular heathen’s perspective, celebrations of the Winter Solstice are far more more natural—as well as more authentically human—than traditions involving Santa Clause and gift-laden reindeer and once-a-year moments of charity and compassion. Granted, the two styles of celebratory philanthropy, kindness, and human decency share many commonalities; but our modern versions are not very good at shielding their capitalistic foundations from public view. Regardless of one’s philosophies about the Winter Solstice “season,” though, it seems to strike a chord across social and political and economic divides. As is the case with so many other aspects of human behavior, our emotional attachments to the Winter Solstice may be radically different, but give us the capacity to safely bridge the shark-infested waters between us. With that in mind, I hope I can follow my own advice and seek that protected pathway on December 21 and every day thereafter.
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Nothing can be so utterly destructive to trust in others as betraying it in oneself. That admonition seems so obviously correct that one would be foolish to question it. Yet it happens every day to incalculable numbers of people. A “little deception” may appear innocuous and easily tolerable, but it brings into question every assertion one makes. Every assurance one hears is compared to one’s own dependability. If I can dishonor commitments I make to myself, why should place my trust in others? A history of breaking commitments to myself—whether explicit or implied—is a warning to myself and to others. And, when one determines he cannot be trusted, one’s self-esteem must evaporate completely, leaving a bag of empty skin devoid of merit. I hope I can trust myself. To know otherwise would be absolutely intolerable. I wonder what people who cannot trust themselves feel about themselves? Such a dark, dark place; a point from which return must be next to impossible.
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Trust in dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.
~ Khalil Gibran ~
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I think I may have exhausted my reservoir of tiredness. Though I felt completely spent when I went to bed early last night, I could not get to sleep. At most, I slept for fifteen minutes or thereabouts every hour for most of the night. I started trying to track my clock-watching just after 1:00 a.m. The amount of time I slept between 1 and 2 was negligible. At 2:00 a.m., I turned over to have another look at the clock. I did the same at 2:30, at 3, at 3:30, at 4, and at 4:15. I stayed in bed until almost 5, but finally decided I had used up my capacity to sleep. I am tired again, but I think lack of sleep (and not ongoing fatigue) may be the cause. That would be good. It would mean I may have gotten over the post-chemo stretch of my committed attachment to exhaustion. I hope that’s the case. As much as I’ve grown to appreciate excessive sleep, I’ve also grown tired of it. My energy may be making a post-chemo comeback. My timing is more than a little off-balance.
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If my hands get any thinner, I think I might be able to see light through them by holding them up to a bright light. That’s an exaggeration, by the way, but not by much. The bones and tendons, already easily visible beneath a web of blue veins and ribbons of connective tissue, seem to have less volume than I would have expected. My fingers, once short and stubby like miniature light tan cudgels, now look more like beefy beige pretzel sticks. But “stubby” and “beefy” suggest thickness that has long-since devolved into something without as much body as those words might imply. Though they are far from toothpick-thin, my fingers belong on the hands of a tall, lanky teenager—proportional to his angular gauntness. On the other hand, they might be fitting for an old man whose body is shrinking, revealing what happens when food no longer is as attractive as it was when the body belonged to a ravenously hungry boy-person. Though I once was a ravenously hungry boy-person, I never had the sleek, svelte body I assume such persons have. Instead, my body was clad with thick layers of protective coverings that simultaneously hid both evidence of skeletal structure beneath body-warming temperature regulating tissues and any suggestion that powerful muscles might reside there.
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It has happened again. My fingers are rebelling against forced employment as alphabetic laborers. For now, anyway. I may explore whether the bed is still as comfortable as I remember it once was.
