#midwinter

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

Penthouse, Vol 2 No 3, Midwinter, 1966

[soracities]

Tomas Tranströmer, “Midwinter″, The Deleted World: Poems (versions by Robin Robertson, bilingual ed.) [transcript in ALT]

[sheafrotherdon]

Nicky wakes up early. It’s still dark as he climbs out of bed and picks up yesterday’s discarded t-shirt and jeans from the floor, pulls them on, and pads out into the shadowed hallway. Everyone is sleeping and will stay that way for a while, attuned as they are to the specific silence of the safe house. The scent of coffee will tell them when it’s time to wake.

The kitchen floor is cool beneath Nicky’s bare feet as he pulls flour and sugar from the cupboard, and finds his favored mixing bowl. He selects two oranges from the platter on the kitchen table. They’re a pleasant weight in his hands as he rinses them at the sink, and he smiles as he gently peels long strips of rind from each fruit, orange oil dampening his fingers.  He chops the rind into tiny pieces with a kitchen knife he keeps predictably sharp, and lets his mind wander.

They all came into this long life with midwinter rituals, rituals that pushed aside the darkness and kindled light. Andy’s rituals were, by the time Nicolo met her, casual habits and scraps of poetry from more places than she could name. Quynh would find the means to make lamps from whale oil and tallow, beeswax in later years, but always she would meet winter with the industry of her hands. Yusuf leaned toward fire, kindling and branches, logs or turf, more than once the pungent blaze of cow shit. Always he would smile; always he would sing. Always Nicky fell a little more in love.  And then came Nile, with traditions that ran from Santa to mass, to knitted stockings for each of them when she had the means, and Catholic rituals that Nicky recognized as echoes of his own. Last Christmas she had given Joe coal, and he had thrown back his head and roared with laughter, and called her fond and obscene names.

But it was solstice where Nicky felt most grounded, where the patient observation of darkness in its fullest expression brought quiet joy. Thus the oranges, the creaming of butter and sugar, the addition of flour that he never quite manages to avoid spilling on his shirt. Dropping the orange rind into his bowl, he turns his attention to chopping sweetened cranberries into small, tart bites, and mixing everything into a dough.

By the time the dough is chilled and the cookies cut into small, precise rounds, the oven is ready, and the coffee has been set to brew. Andy shuffles into the kitchen as the first of the solstice sweets are cooling on a rack, and Nicky smacks her hand away from the still-too-hot cookies, a ritual in and of itself.  She accepts coffee in lieu of food, pulls her knees up to her body, heels resting on the seat of the chair, and hunches inside her oversized sweater that has seen better days but is worn and well loved.  Nile follows, and after a time, Joe, and only then does Nicky slip the cookies onto a plate and set them on the table.

The sky outside turns from black to morning grey, and the people Nicky loves eat the best expression of sunlight he knows.  He wipes his hands on a towel and fills a mug with coffee, pulls out a chair and as Joe rests a hand on his knee, covers that hand with his own.

[asexual--bard]

Happy Winter Holidays to all! May you receive a joyous visit from the Boon Sloth!

[priestessofthepoeticprophesy]

[burdellen]

winter in the borderlands

[agrownupgeekgirl]

Nature is forever arriving

and forever departing,

forever approaching,

forever vanishing;

but in her vanishings

there seems to be ever the waving of a hand,

in all her partings

a promise of meetings farther along the road.

- Richard Le Gallienne

[wire-smith]

There are no seasons on the deep-space ships that make the long haul between the stars. There is no axial tilt and no nearby sun to cast a changing radiance. Light and heat and air on board are all carefully regulated. But nonetheless, the fleets traditionally celebrate two festivals a year, six months apart, and call them midwinter and midsummer after the seasons of Old Earth.

At midwinter they douse the lights. Corridors slowly dim, heat vents cool, fans wind down to stillness. The ships drift, the background hum of engines and machinery silent for one full night. Familiar spaces are made new in darkness and the unaccustomed chill. People rove by flashlight, gather, warm themselves with hot food and close company. Low songs fill the shocking silence and echo through the frame of the ship. There are no seasons in space, so midwinter remembers the winter: the vast dark outside the hull and the warmth within.

Six months later the fleet holds midsummer. Everything on! Rooms and parks lit brightly as the grow-farms and as hot as any planetary summer. Crowds and dancing and speakers blasting music, food, drink, all systems strained to their limits and unleashed. All the excesses normally unthinkable in the rigid routine of a spacecraft are indulged. Even the comm system joins in with power-hungry broadcasts to planets and neighbor fleets light-years distant. Midsummer is a chance to let off steam, a reminder to crew that there is more to life than the bland monotony of safe routine.

On paper the festivals are officially necessary maintenance and engineering tests. Fleet regulations require a power-out drill every twelve months, where ships simulate a disconnect from the Heartship and prove they can survive on minimal power for the day it might take to start the backup generators. And once a year the fleet is required to confirm it has the energy reserves to supply power even at maximum possible draw, and to broadcast a bright enough signal that Old Earth can plot the paths of its far-flung people. Maintenance and engineering tests and regulations, nothing more.

But the fleet regulations are written by captains who know that the festivals are much more than that. They are a reminder that people and worlds and life exist beyond the tight confines of the ship. We celebrate each year at midwinter and midsummer because there are no seasons in space besides those that we make for ourselves.

[phinix53]

MidWinter

[ochipi]

Midwinter has past

Wodan has led the hunt

Holda shines her light

Let Sunna ride a few minutes longer

To shorten the night

[uwmspeccoll]

Winter Solstice 2022

Today, December 21, is the Winter Solstice, which is the shortest day of the year. From today onward, the sun will be in the sky longer and longer each day. This is a day to celebrate making it halfway through the dark days of winter and look forward into the new year with a renewed sense of hope and optimism.

In celebration of the solstice, we are sharing Overhead the Sun: Lines from Walt Whitman, illustrated with woodcuts by Uruguayan-American artist Antonio Frasconi. The book was published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux in 1969. The woodcuts are of the sun and the seasons, printed in bright, saturated colors. I thought the images of the sun were appropriate for the solstice, in view of the sunny days to come. But also appropriate is the woodcut of a tiny, snow-covered house during a snow storm, since we are about to get hit with our own snow storm this weekend! 

Stay safe out there in these winter months and keep an eye on the sun as it stays with us longer and longer each day. 

View other posts with work by Antonio Frasconi.

View posts from Winter Solstices past.

-- Alice, Special Collections Department Manager

[horse-freak]

She

[breelandwalker]

Happy Midwinter!

Here's to the year ahead Here's to the year behind Here's the company all kept well In body, soul, and mind.

Wishing you all good health, good company, a warm hearth, a merry table, a full cupboard, and a safe and prosperous year to come!

[homemadehorrors]

Tonight's the night!

[karniss-bg3]

I would like to give Kar'niss this gift

https://5thsrd.org/gamemaster_rules/magic_items/ring_of_mind_shielding/

(He deserves safety, comfort, and peace)

Kar’niss looked over the peculiar ring, one he’d not seen before in his lifetime. A golden band crowned with a purple stone carved into the shape of a brain rested in his palm. Hesitantly he slipped the item onto his finger, attuning to it as instructed. He felt a wave of energy coarse through his veins the moment he connected to the strange jewelry which caused him to take in a sharp inhale of breath. Soon after came a silence he hadn’t known since before he was transformed. Something about this ring shielded his mind from the many outside whispers known to plague him which dragged his mental state down into the dirt. He breathed a slow sigh of relief and his eyes fluttered closed. He took that rare moment to bask in the quiet and take it in. He reveled in the safety that this new item seemed to bestow without asking for anything in return. Complete tranquility.

“Thank you, Tav. You know not what this means to me,” Kar’niss whispered.

The drider spent the rest of the night curled up near the fireplace, focused on the sounds of the crackling blaze which would’ve normally been drowned out by unwelcome voices. He would forever be grateful for this reprieve, this moment of peace, and the new found protection offered by the thoughtful gift.

[xylagrey]

Ethereal Winter