The Unconquered Sun
Winter Solstice at Dos Palomas
I’m up at the cabin this weekend–and I can say with a little hint of pride–that I have never missed a sunrise when staying the night. There is always something magical about how the Sun’s rays first backlight the mountains, then skip across the desert floor until they blanket my face in a warm embrace. The brisk morning temperature instantly goes up five degrees as I squint and smile.
While each desert dawn is special, tomorrow's sunrise carries an added hint of magic as it will be the first dawn after the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. At precisely 6:48am Pacific Standard Time, my porch will be painted in gold light for just a fraction of a second longer than the day before; a subtle but welcome reminder that the days are getting longer. And for me–a warm promise of hope for the new year.
Don’t forget, in celebration of the Winter Solstice I’m offering my Enlightened Omnivore annual subscriptions at 50% off until December 21st. Thanks for your support!
Across the northern hemisphere, people have celebrated this hibernal time with celebrations, ceremonies, and perhaps a hint of fear. For months, the Sun has been sinking below the horizon earlier and earlier each day. Maybe the first humans thought it might simply disappear all together. No wonder ancient peoples lit bonfires, shouted at the sky, and served up bacchanal feasts to stop the Sun in its tracks, forcing it to reverse course and welcome in warmer, brighter days.
I treat December 21st as my New Year, rather than all you lovers of Pope Gregory’s calendar. But rather than waste time with resolutions, ball drops, and Auld Lang Syne, I retreat to the desert for a little rest, reflection, and repair, fortifying my spirit after an eventful year, often over-indulgent Thanksgiving, and relentless holiday shopping. It also gives me a moment to pause and consciously consider shifting my mindset–just before Christmas–from thinking about myself (which tends to be my default), to thinking about others.
The warmth of my cabin is the perfect spot for this micro hibernation, and as I curl up on my sheepskin rug in front of the glowing glass of my wood stove, I feel a bit like the bears up the hill, already bedded down in their winter dens for some season-long, dream-filled slumber.
At Dos Palomas, the winter is a bit cooler than much of the Mojave on account of my altitude. Although snow is rare, it’s not impossible. And the constant breeze that sweeps down from the nearby mountains year-round, is now a frigid gale all day long. A Native American friend once told me that the stronger the winter wind, the more seeds of change for the coming year. From the sounds of the howling around my cabin walls, big changes are on the way.
Safe inside, I put another log in the cast iron stove. The handle squeaks. The fire box ticks and pings. Lights and screens are off. Only firelight and candle wicks keep out the dark. My eyes soften as I lean into the longest night of the year. I think about intentions and aspirations for the future. I remember those who will not be joining me in the new year.
The night deepens. The Sun is only hours away. Filled with a renewed sense of hope, I know that the darkness will recede just a bit tomorrow. And then a bit more the next day. And then the next.
In my little cabin, wrapped in night and warmed by firelight, hope abounds. No matter how long the dark, how deep the cold, how fierce the mountain winds, the Sun always returns. Unconquered. Unconquerable. And tomorrow at dawn, I'll be on my porch to welcome it home.
