And so the Wheel of the Year has turned to Yule. Although the candles blazed in a riot of light, I am slow to turn away from the center and begin the spiral back out into the light. Don't wait for me. I'll be there by Imbolc. I promise.
I won't deny that this Yule is a strange one. Some traditions were imperative, like baking Jannie-esque ritual cakes and decorating the hearth. Others, like the dozens of small delicacies for the Yule Eve feast, didn't make sense for an evening spent alone.
One old tradition that I welcomed back was going out on the bluffs to watch the sunrise over Long Island Sound. It wasn't a dramatic sunrise. The sky changed slowly from iron to pewter to dull silver. The tide was rising near high, and the water pounded the rocks below me. A bitter wind from the east kept blowing my hood off and threatened to send my blanket aloft like a kite. An octet of ducks floated like corks in one of the more sheltered inlets.
Last night's tarot reading reminded me that this IS the bottom point. I've been here before, and I recognize the landmarks. This is the point where you realize that the fall didn't kill you and that you have solid rock beneath your ass. This is where you survey the damage and begin to put things back together. This is a point that is filled with hope.
The blessing from the reading was The Lovers. This card represents choice more often than it represents love. To be blessed by choice is a good thing, especially because other parts of the reading indicate that I have the wit to recognize which choice is right for me. It's not the one that the world would expect me to choose, either. *wink*
So, I wish you the blessings of this season, and remind you that it IS Saturnalia.