WINTER SOLSTICE 2023

First posted on

snowy woods

The winter solstice occurs on Thu Dec. 21, 2023 at 9:27 p.m. Eastern Standard in North America. This day will last 7 hours 14 minutes here to Toronto, Canada, the shortest day of the year and the longest night. After that the light will grow day by day until the longest day around June 21st.

The poem that follows was written in Venice Beach, California in 1993, a long way from Hereford Hill in Quebec’s Eastern Townships where a child rode in a sleigh under a buffalo robe, for Buffalo robes still existed then. The woods have grown ever deeper. The country belongs to the rabbits, the deer, the moose and the bears up on the mountain.

Winter Solstice

Such deep dark
so long sustained
should smell of balsam,
cedar, pine,
should have a canopy of icy stars,
of Northern lights,
shifting panes of white or green.

-A child under a buffalo robe
watching a sleigh runner
cut through blue
moon-shadowed snow
sees a rabbit track running off
into deep woods.-

Waking in the depth
of this longest night,
thirsty for sleep,I hear
the pounding surf,
an angry wordless shout
one floor below
and the reverberating slam
of a dumpster lid.
The sky at least is quiet:
a star hangs
above the flight path.

In my long sleep,
I have been following
that track back
into the woods
breathing spruce pitch
and resined pine,
lashed by boughs of evergreen,
until I have arrived at this
secret place
which only wild things know,
a place to shelter
while things end,
time unwinds,
the circle turns.

When we awaken,
shouting, homeless,
single and bereft,
we will go forth
into the growing light,
a light
we creatures of the dark
must yet endure.

This is the place,
now is the time
for the birth of the Child
in the cave of the heart.

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Blossom of Tewkesbury: a white tailed deer

white tailed deer #2This is a generic picture i.e. not Blossom

I watched a Nature program about white tailed deer on WNED, a PBS station the other day. http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/episodes/the-private-life-of-deer/full-episode/8278/ A hundred years ago, there were only one million white tailed deer in the U.S. Today there are thirty million, just a little under the human population of Canada. Here in Toronto, a small herd of them lives half a block down my street in an urban forest. I have written about them, but I am always too stunned when I chance upon them to get a photo. https://115journals.com/2013/07/14/secrets-of-the-urban-woods/

In Cayuga Heights, New York, there are 100 hundred white tailed deer for every square mile. The optimum number would be 5. The Nature program shows how they interact with the human population.

I was blown away by the story of one of them, Blossom, who was rescued as an injured fawn by a family in Tewkesbury, New Jersey and spent her life alternating between a life in the wild and visits to the family home where she was welcome to stroll in the kitchen door. (Blossom’s story is told by Anna Carver at about minute 46.) She wore a colorful collar asking hunters not to shoot her. And I gather, she eventually gave birth to twin fawns. Anna has also posted a tribute to Blossom on Youtube.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=52z5xyHvs3U

white tailed deer running #2

 

 

 

Bad Titles: journal 118 protests

Like George Orwell, I have chosen a title that has overtaken itself. He thought 1984 was sufficiently removed from 1948 that it represented a future where Big Brother watching your every move seemed believable. But, oh George, try teaching that book in 1984 or 1993 or 2012. It is about the past now, in more ways than one. (Thank you closed circuit TV, Google, Facebook and internet surveillance.)

I knew that lesson and yet I went ahead and called my blog, 115journals.com. Journal 118 wants to act as spokesperson for itself and 116 and 117. Journal 118 is a mature and confident speaker, about to retire from active duty and hand the daily grind over to 119.

Still a bit of a whiner: “Look at all I did for you, getting you through a July of heath issues and an August of intense family vacation. And who gets the glory, 115? What did she ever do for you?

It’s just a matter of chance, I counter. Orwell reversed the digits of the year he wrote the book. I was writing in journal 115 when I started the blog.

But 118 is seriously miffed, although partly mollified by the fact I reread its whole heartfelt tale. True I found there the essence of the summer, we are fast losing here in our northern city. It caught the swallows hunting at dusk, the crickets at dark and the glory of the Farmer’s Market at Wychwood Barns.

Please accept my appreciation, 118. I hope you will be mollified by my promise to issue a “Best of 118” in the near future.