#winter sunstead

The Yule Log is ash now, its ancient work accomplished.

I kneel on the hearth and sift the ash with my fingers, seeking the last charred remnants.

The great god of the Northern Bronze Age was the Sun, and His sign was the Wheel.

CRASH!

A massive commotion out on the front porch. The kids rush to the window to see what's happening. That's when the screams begin.

Born, born

upon this morn:

a sacred day is dawning.

“There's no more light now than there was a week ago—in fact it's even colder—but somehow just knowing that the solstice is past makes a difference.”

Shit.

Something has gone seriously wrong.

Old holidays die hard.