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Several years ago, I started celebrating the Winter Solstice at my home in Western Colorado with my friends. I had recently been to Ireland’s renowned Newgrange, a buried ancient temple in the Boyne Valley, County Meath, with a tour group of women, organized by my late dear friend from Boulder, Colorado, that summer. It is known for the sun’s illumination of its passage and chamber only during the Winter Solstice. My experience inside Newgrange touched me deeply. My Irish ancestors immigrated to the United States from County Cork, Ireland.
I am always amazed by how many of my friends can come to my house just days before Christmas. We have a simple meal of soup, bread, and cranberry pudding, and then go outside where a friend has built a fire in a pit. Before the party, I invite my friends to write down things they wish to forget about this year on sheets of paper. Quietly, each of us tosses them into the flames and watches the ashes rise into the sky. Then, we each add our notes on hopes and dreams for the new year to the fire and watch them ascend to the heavens. Finally, we return to the house and visit. The party is over around 8 pm. Maybe it is because of my ancestry, or perhaps because I find the season’s commercialism so tiresome, but I find this simple ceremony with dear friends to be the season’s real meaning.
