So goes a phrase exchanged by a faraway friend and me every 12-21 and 6-21, to mark the winter and summer solstice.
When we shared a shabby duplex some 20 years back, we’d spontaneously meet outside bi-annually for sundown brewskis for that toast. Aspen’s his home now, so FaceBook serves as our virtual porch. Guess it’ll do.
As the sun rises today, we solar-powered humanoids grasp for light and warmth. Bright rays pierce bare trees, then become a blinding beam on the frozen lake. Stunning, yes, but it won’t last. Low clouds lurk and will soon swallow the dim orb. So streetlights will do double duty today, and for many more.
Lucky for us, we’ve seen this cycle. It’s always the same—with years that whirl past so fast you’re tempted to skip the toast. But don’t.
Personal rituals keep us both spinning and connected, whether jamming into churches packed with part-timers on Christmas Eve, bowling on Tuesdays, or howling a snarky toast into silent skies on the shortest day.
These rituals can fade, along with memory and humor. But maybe they’ll only matter more as the years go by. Why not pack in as many as possible?
When my interest wanes, I try again. I seek significance—though comedy will do—when sneaking a spell to meditate, meeting friends in the bar after the softball game, or dreaming and scheming about the next 90-day BreakAway.
That Sabbatical may or may not come to pass. But the Summer Solstice will be here soon enough—guaranteed, so long as we live to notice and remember to celebrate.
There’s a lesson here about faith. And light. And tradition. When I figure it out, I’ll shout it out into the cold, dark air. Whether anyone is listening, or not.