Wheel of the Year
The Return of the Light
By Tamia Nelson
A Note to our Readers
We're giving Ed and Brenna a short break over the holidays. "Trip
of a Lifetime" will return on January 9, 2001.
Our cabin looks out to the west, across
the Flow. Whenever possible we take a minute at twilight to mark the
point on the horizon where the sun sets. Only a few days ago it
reached its ultimate south. From now until late June the sun will
travel relentlessly northward, and each day will be just a little
longer and lighter than the one before. Far from being the first day
of winter in the northern hemisphere, therefore, December 21st is
midwinter's day—one of the great fixed points in the
astronomical calendar.
Our canoes may be buried under rapidly-deepening drifts, and we
may go about our daily chores on snowshoes, but the season of darkness
is even now giving way to that of light—grudgingly at first, to
be sure, but the return of the sun is nonetheless assured. It's no
surprise, then, that midwinter festivals have figured prominently in
the religious traditions of all northern peoples, at all times in
human history of which we can claim any knowledge. Long before the
great holy days of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam were celebrated in
prayer and song, men and women who knew nothing of Moses, Jesus, or
Muhammad rejoiced in the annual renewal of the sun's promise.
It was these same men and women who gave us a unique gift. In
learning how to travel along northern waterways, they built the boats
which bring us all together here today. True, few modern canoes and
kayaks bear more than a passing resemblance to their aboriginal
precursors. And we're many generations removed from the northern
artisans who first shaped skin, wood, and bark into light, responsive
craft. But despite this unbridgeable gulf of years, we are still the
same people now that we were then. We can no more help being stirred
by the simple, elemental wonder of the sun's return than we can escape
delight in breathing.
This is a time, then, for celebration, for rejoicing, and for
thanks. Farwell and I are no exception. We have much to be thankful
for. For the extraordinary energy and remarkable patience of Brian Van
Drie and Brent Vredevoogd, for one thing. Without them, Paddling.net
would not exist, and canoeists and kayakers on every continent would
be poorer.
And what of you, our readers? You, too, are equally important to
us. However busy he or she may be, a writer's life is an oddly
solitary one, and no life, however full, can comprehend more than a
tiny portion of the range of human experience. Fortunately for us
both, from the first weeks of our column right up until today, we've
been blessed with readers who continue to challenge, instruct, and
gladden us. You questions us. You correct our errors. You remind us of
things we've forgotten. In short, you teach us something every day,
and our lives are forever enriched by your letters.
We hope to hear from even more of you in the months to come. If you
don't tell us what's on your minds, we can't know what you're
thinking. So don't be shy, and don't hold back. We have thick skins
and broad shoulders. Tell us what we've written that you've enjoyed or
found useful. What you've found boring. What you'd like to see more
of—and less of. We want to know. While we certainly can't please
everyone, we'll always do our best. You are the reason that
we're here, after all. 'Nuff said.
I'm writing this on Christmas Eve. It will be dark soon, and
Farwell and I are already surrounded by gifts. None is wrapped in
colored paper, however. The ice on the Flow murmurs and sings with
each surge of hidden water. On the slope behind our cabin, juncos and
chickadees scratch for seeds in sheltered hollows under the cedars. At
any moment now, a mother deer and her two yearling bucks will emerge
from the woods to forage in the second-growth along the road. For
these presents and many others Farwell and I give daily thanks.
The greatest gift of all, though, is the gift of friendship. Here,
too, Farwell and I have been fortunate indeed. In particular, we'd
like to thank two North Country neighbors, Don and Leslie. Neither
will be sitting at our table tonight, but each will be present in our
thoughts, as will Brent, Brian, and all our readers, as well.
To Leslie, therefore, and to Don, and to the entire Paddling.net
family, we raise our glasses to you, each and every one—in
gratitude, in affection, and in celebration. In this season when we
join together in rejoicing, perhaps no better invocation can be found
than that of Ecclesiasticus: "A faithful friend is the medicine of
life."
To life, then, and to warmth and color. To the Return of the Light.
Copyright © 2000 by Verloren Hoop Productions. All rights reserved.