Winter Solstice, Our lady of the Forest

Dec 21^st is the Winter Solstice when the days begin to get longer and Spring cannot be so far away ( here on the West Coast). I have related Christmas to the older solstice celebrating Saturnalia of the Romans in this poem and the Madonna statue to the even older Egyptian beliefs that lead to the worship of the mother of Christ - the bringer of the light of the world. The more things change the more they stay the same.

Despite knowing the background of our lady of the forest and seeing her wrapped in Christmas lights, I can still make the intuitive leap, feel the truth of that other reality and benefit from my step off the road, down that narrow trail and into the forest.

    

 Our Lady of the Forest.

For Christmas she is floodlit at night.

         Just back from the main road,
         a modest statue 
       of our lady of the forest.

It is full daylight on this year's visit -
sun in the treetops 

         patterns of melting snow
       in the blue shadows.

I have to slide down a narrow trail,

         step between trees and over roots,
       to clearly recognize her waiting  
       in the shining green undergrowth.

At this time of year, the darkest,

 

         she takes on a significance
       overlooked during brighter seasons.
       Bringer of the light.

I know this is a concrete reproduction,

         one copy of many, but well made.
       A believable young woman,
       Standing so seriously upon her pedestal.

For thousands of years, the mother.

         It takes me a leap to accept her blessing
       and return to the road,
         renewed.

Two views

                       

With a nod of thanks to Good King Wenceslas, the Bible , James Joyce, Dickens and Robert Frost. ( and probably others....)

It has been below freezing since seems long ago,

And cool and crisp and even

could describe these particular dark, short, winter days.

Snow is general all over Saltspring Island:

Our driveway and roads are icy and difficult to negotiate,

The woods filled with that white stuff.

We feel frozen fingers despite the gloves.

Roll on Summer, we say, Humbug,

And watch the woodpile shrink

As we keep the fires burning hot.

How beautiful upon the mountain,

And upon the trees and bushes,

Are the traceries of white.

Blue shadows gather in inky pools

At the foot of snow-capped rocky ridges

And rays of sun, casting long yellow stripes,

Brightly peer through green, mossy trees.