It’s been a bit, and in the meantime we entered the spin cycle of family in town, our only child’s graduation from high school, and a little over two weeks in Italy. Like the islands in the bay of Naples, we’re feeling the seismic rumblings of shifts we only think we understand, mere guesses at what life will be in a couple months. I’ve barely begun to process all that has happened in the last month, dizzy as I still am from it all.
A year ago today, as we were heading home from Finland, I jotted down a list of ways I wanted to celebrate Juhannus this year. Juhannus, or Midsummer, is the feast of the birth of St. John the Baptist, a festival six months before Christmas Eve, just past the summer solstice while the days are long and bright and full of the hope of all that is to come. In Helsinki the streets are empty, everyone having gone to their summer cottages on islands or in the woods to celebrate the occasion. Juhannus rivals Christmas as a holiday, and the two are sides of the same magical, liminal, wonderful coin. One does not celebrate either in any way that might mark a normal day; for the Finns these days are holy, and wholly other.
We do not have a summer cottage (though I pretend our home is one in these months, with its punamulta red exterior and vegetable garden), and in all truthfulness I had completely forgotten about Juhannus over the course of the last eleven months by the time it rolled around again this year. If it hadn’t been for Kristen Haakenson over at Hearthstone Fables, I would have missed it entirely. But her post on the solstice about Johnsmas (that I read a day later) gave just enough notice to invite friends over last night for a Juhannus Eve party.
It. Was. Perfect.
Magical, even. We hadn’t really planned or coordinated, so the evening just unfolded as it did, carrying us along with it. We lingered over a feast of summer fruits and bread and cheese and chips and dip and all things easy and carefree. The children went to the the park to forage willow branches for flower garlands and still, we lingered. The crowns wove together like our voices in Taize song, as we gathered to punctuate the end of the sabbath as we often do. But the candlelight wasn’t the end, and instead of the light slowly dying down we migrated to the garden for a fire and poetry, laughter and s’mores. The time crept on, but the light and the fire shone on.
How fitting it is that the birth of John the Baptist marks the time when the days begin to wane (though you’d never know it by the lingering light at 10pm), that his birth just after the solstice marks a decrease even as Christ’s birth after the other solstice marks an increase. The girls in their crowns were reminiscent of Santa Lucia, like an arrow shot right through the heart of the year, all the way to December. In all of these days that we celebrate, there is no escaping the point around which we all revolve: Christ. The brightest of days and the darkest of nights point to the One who shines brighter than the sun, and they whisper their witness to stir our hearts toward the source of all that is bright and right in the world.
As the dark tiptoed in and the day said its goodbyes, we held on just a little longer for a nighttime swim in the pond. The memory of John the Baptizer baptized us as we floated beneath the stars, weightless, timeless, caught in the mystery of all that is holy. What a glimpse of eternity, what a foretaste of glory, feasts like these are, unfolding in time and enfolding us in love, like the One in whom we live and move and have our being. These moments are gift, and I am overwhelmed by the beauty of them.
A Poem: Received
I am always thankful for Malcolm Guite’s poems, especially those that accompany the seasons. Here is the one we read around the fire last night, all the better when heard in his own voice.
St. John's Eve Midsummer night, and bonfires on the hill Burn for the man who makes way for the Light: 'He must increase and I diminish still, Until his sun illuminates my night.' So John the Baptist pioneers our path, Unfolds the essence of the life of prayer, Unlatches the last doorway into faith, And makes one inner space an everywhere. Least of the new and greatest of the old, Orpheus on the threshold with his lyre, He sets himself aside, and cries "Behold The One who stands amongst you comes with fire!" So keep his fires burning through this night, Beacons and gateways for the child of light.
A Poem: Offered
I’ve perhaps shared this here before, but I’ll risk it again if I have given the time of year we find ourselves in. I wrote it back in November, anticipating the longer days again. I’ll bask in them while I can, both the sunlight and the words.
Solstice It doesn't really, you know. The sun doesn't really stand still On the solstice. We just call it that Because it feels like We're swinging Pumping our legs To get higher and higher And just when we think We might flip over the bar We hang frozen in time Hearts in our throats And we gasp just before The chain jerks us Back to reality Back towards earth And we plummet again Toward the stuff we're made of. The sun doesn't really stand still We're not really about to cross over But, oh, it's transcendent.
Love and appreciate all the thought you’ve shared here. Always learning from you.