Luminarias line the walks, colored lights shine from the front porch, and Salida’s “Christmas Mountain,” a 700-foot-tall outline of a tree with ornaments on a hill across the river, glows in the left background.
Darkness as a metaphor stands for gloom, distress, unhappiness, ignorance or secrecy; something impenetrable, evil, or simply wicked. The word meaning “absence of light” takes on such metaphoric power because we humans are a visual species, depending primarily on sight to make sense of the world.
(Other animals depend on their other senses as much or more as sight. Dogs, for example, can navigate with their eyes closed and noses sniffing, aided by something like 125 to 300 million smell-sensors; our noses, with a paltry 5 million smell-sensing cells, are blind by comparison.)
Thus, if we cannot see something clearly, we tend to fear it. That’s true figuratively as well as literally.
Hence the power of darkness as a metaphor. And our unease when the nights lengthen and daylight grows short. (As well as our overabundance of artificial nighttime lighting, so much that it now pollutes the night skies and, scientists are beginning to document, harms our health.)
No wonder then, that light stars in so many Northern-Hemisphere-based winter holidays: Hanukkah menorahs, Christmas trees, Yule logs, and even Kwanzaa candles, a celebration rooted in equatorial Africa where day length is not an issue. (In the Southern Hemisphere, these holidays fall incongruously in the longest days of the year)
These holiday lights are meant to illuminate, a word that means “to light up,” and also “to explain, make clear, elucidate.” Light alleviates spiritual and intellectual darkness, bestowing knowledge and understanding.
A votive candle burns steadily, nestled on its scoop of sand, the flame sheltered and amplified by a fragile paper bag.
My favorite of these light-the-dark-winter-days illuminations are the luminarias of the Hispanic New World (or farolitos, depending on the area of the Southwest). Richard and I learned this tradition of setting small votive candles in paper bags, each with a scoop of sand to anchor the bag and keep the candle from burning its shelter, when we lived in southern New Mexico.
On Christmas Eve, whole neighborhoods there (including the one where we lived) were lit with luminarias, the glowing paper bags lining streets, sidewalks, and even rooftops.
When we moved north to his childhood home a decade and a half ago, we brought the luminaria tradition with us. Except we moved it to Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year, and began an annual “Light the Darkness” open house, inviting friends and family to help fill luminarias and line our sidewalk and walkways. After lighting them one by one, we shared homemade eggnog and other holiday treats.
Each year the celebration grew. And then came Richard’s brain cancer. The first Winter Solstice, we were away, living in the Denver area for his radiation treatments. Friends gathered at our house, filled and lit the luminarias, and sent us photographs of their light. (People all around the world lit candles that night and emailed us photos. That outpouring of love and light still warms me.)
Luminarias glow in Salida’s SteamPlant Sculpture Garden after the celebration of Richard Cabe’s life.
By second Winter Solstice of Richard’s journey with brain cancer, he had survived two brain surgeries and seemed to be doing well, but my mother had just begun hospice care and was slipping fast. I was coordinating her care, which meant going back and forth to Denver every few days. We lit the luminarias, but skipped the party.
By the time Winter Solstice arrived last year, the third year of our journey with Richard’s brain cancer, he was gone. Molly and I held the celebration of his remarkable life on the day after Solstice, and invited the hundreds who attended to write something for Richard on a luminaria bag, and place it in Salida’s Steamplant Sculpture Garden near “Matriculation,” his sculpture there.
Solstice this year marked not only the return of the sun’s light and warmth, but also a personal milestone: I threw the first-ever Light the Darkness party without Richard. Friends and family gathered, filled and distributed the bags (including some with sayings saved from last year’s celebration), and then lit the luminarias.
A message from last year’s celebration of Richard’s life.
One by one, the tiny flames took hold and the flimsy bags glowed in the gathering darkness. We gathered in the warm house, ate and drank and laughed and toasted those who could not be there with us.
Much later, when the house was quiet, I padded outside into the frigid darkness. The luminarias were glowing, Salida’s “Christmas Mountain” was bright on its hill across the river, and all was still.
I turned my face to the star-spangled, moon-shot heavens and made my solstice wish:
May we all find light in whatever darkness impedes us. May we all find peace, healing, and love to guide us on our way.
Blessings of this solstice season to you all!
your initiating this tradition in salida, and now continuing it, brightens my solstice, too. i am grateful to mark the dark and for the returning light.
Velma, Seems to me that if we don’t mark and acknowledge the dark, we can’t appreciate the returning light. I’m glad to be able to brighten your solstice too….
Wonderful tradition, Susan, and I loved seeing the results of it. I’ve heard of it but never saw it done or had the chance to try it myself. Thank you for this experience. Warm wishes to you and Molly, and lovely memories.
Sam, You could put half a dozen luminarias on your deck, couldn’t you? All you need are #10 size bags (I prefer white paper, but brown works too), about a cup of clean sand for each, and 8-hour votive candles. They’re really lovely and it’s inspiring to see them burning early the next morning in the stillness before dawn. Thanks for those warm wishes–they’re much appreciated.
Yes, I think I might be able to do that, though not this year. Tony/SO is gone until the middle of January and without his help it seems a bit too late to try it now. But he is Mexican, so I’m sure he’s at least heard of luminaria even if we have’t done them before. And I have a whole year to plan it, now! LOL
I know that you’d mentioned that Tony was off on his annual Las Vegas trip, and I wondered how you manage without him. I hope you have plenty of support! And yes, a year should give you plenty of time to plan some luminarias. You can also get electric ones, but they don’t have the wonderful ephemeral magic of the flickering candles.
He tries to make sure I have a stocked fridge and freezer before he leaves so I don’t have to try to get to town. I can do the shopping and get help putting stuff in the truck, but getting it from the truck into the house when I get home is the issue! *G* I’ve seen the electric luminaria in catalogs but they seem too kitschy somehow. Authentic is always better, I think.
Beautiful post Susan. Caused me to reflect on how darkness also signifies mystery, the unknowable, which of course death is until we cross over.
Thank you, again.
Donna, Thank you. Isn’t it interesting that darkness has so many connotations involving what we cannot see, and thus know? I have to wonder if part of the reason we fear death is that it blinds us, at least as far as we know until, as you say so beautifully, “until we cross over.” Blessings to you….
(An aside for this blog community: For those who don’t know, Donna Johnson is the author of an extraordinary memoir, Holy Ghost Girl, about growing up in the culture of tent revivals. Worth the read!)
What a lovely and appropriate post, Susan. Your prose is more poetic than that of most other writers I know, and never fails to move me. Here in North Dakota, the winter solstice is a very long, dark, and exceptionally cold night, most years. (always long and dark, occasionally not as frigid as this year’s!). I am sure that Richard was watching you light the luminarias from wherever he may be, and smiling that amazing smile of his. You illuminate my life in many ways, and I know you illuminate the lives of others as well. I hope you find both peace and joy in this cold season.
Lori
Lori, What a lovely compliment (the poetic prose)! Thank you. Perhaps the beauty I find in life affects my writing too. I know how dark winter solstice can be farther north, and how bitterly cold. At home in northwest Wyoming, it seemed like the nights always dropped to minus 50 or so during the ten days after the solstice. Brrrrr. I am not sure I could manage that cold now. I like the idea of being able to illuminate your life, and I hope the warmth I feel comes through too. I was fortunate to have “great love” in my life for almost 29 years, and I know that helps me continue to love the life I have even though Richard is not physically here to share it…. Blessings to you as the year turns and the light gradually returns.
What loveliness. Honestly, I would like to try this in my Chicago neighborhood next year. Don’t know why it never occurred to me. Such loveliness must be shared.
Peace.
Cathi
Cathi, I think luminarias would bring you joy, and I hope you do try them for next winter solstice. If you can, get other neighbors involved. I happen to have half a block of street frontage, so they make an impact, but the more luminarias, the more awe-inspiring they are…. Blessings!
Well, you musta been using Super 8 hour votives, since I saw all (or at least all enough) luminarias still shining when I rode by, a twelve hours after we lit them. I was able to use your FB posting of them, to show a co-worker, the same morning after, who wondered about this get-together I’d told her I was going to. As you mention, we’re visual animals, and seeing the FB pic illumined her face as she sighed, “Ooooow! Aaaahhhhh!”
That solstice when neighbors and other friends did the luminarias while y’all were at the Denver VA made me fall in love all over again with this small town we get to call home.
Eduardo, Those were just 8-hour votives, but in my experience they usually burn for 12 hours until it’s really windy or something. How lovely that your co-worker got such delight out of the photo on Facebook. Maybe she’ll be inspired to start a tradition of her own. We’re lucky to live in a community so warm and supportive, aren’t we?
Amen.
Thanks, Blanche!
Susan, your words are so beautiful – my eyes moistened. And then there is Christmas Mountain and a forever memory. The picture looking down into the single luminaria is a work of art. Hugs to you this holiday season.
Lindy, Thank you. I hope that light and warmth fill your days, and that you’re finding plenty of kindred spirits as you settle into life in the snowy North! Do you miss the desert in winter? Much love to you this holiday season.
I wasn’t really familiar with this tradition until I started reading of it in your blogs. I love your luminaria pathways and the multiple metaphors as well! Hmmm, you’ve given me an idea for my NYEve party. When I had some students over a couple weeks ago, let’s just say they were a bit spooked by the fact that I live in a neighborhood up against the hills, NO streetlights, not to mention the LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT, aaiieee. I think luminaria would be just the thing!
Lynda, You live in the perfect climate for luminarias (assuming no Santa Anas blowing), and I think lining your driveway/front walk with them would be gorgeous for your party. I envy you the no streetlights thing. I’m going to have to do some serious educating to get the nearby bank that installed in-your-face lights on the wall by its cash machine last year to shield the stupid things so the light doesn’t blind me everytime I walk or drive by…. Enjoy your luminarias and your NY Eve party!
This evening I sat for a long time gazing at the changing evening light on the mountain. We had heavy cloud which melted and lifted revealing patches of sapphire blue sky just above the luminous mountain ridge. Going to miss my mountain, but I’ll learn to love the new ones in their turn.
Diana, I always love seeing your photos of Elephant’s Eye Mountain on your blog. It changes so in different seasons and different light. But I must have missed something–you are leaving it? Where will you and the Ungardener go? Wherever the path takes you, I hope it’s full of new wonders….
Like you we are in transit. We’ve found a new home on False Bay. Preparing Elephant’s Eye for sale next year, we hope.
The photos of False Bay on the internet are gorgeous. I hope your place there brings you as much joy and inspiration as Elephant’s Eye has, and I know someone will fall in love with your garden and home at EE. May your move to False Bay go smoothly….
As always, your words illuminate and warm my mind and spirit. It’s so wonderful that you had those messages from last years memorial service to light up this years celebration. And brave of you to move forward into the light, yourself, this year. Many blessings to you!
Susan G-T, I’m tickled that my words would be useful, and that you used “illuminate” and “warm” to describe their effect. Thanks for honoring the spirit of my words by reflecting them back in your comment. Thank you for the compliment, though I don’t know that it’s brave of me to move forward into the light–what else would I do? I think the hardest part about losing Richard is simply that now there’s just one of me to do everything, and it takes courage to face that and not become so overwhelmed I get paralyzed. I remind myself every day to take one thing at a time, and not worry about the thousand things lined up behind that one. And mostly that works.
Blessings to you and Michael!