Alban Arthan:
The Midwinter Solstice
The mulch of leaf and bark crunches beneath his feet as each footfall—felt, sensed, and intentional—calls to the land. Skeletal trees bathed in the shadows of pre-dawn stand as silent sentinels, sleepy witnesses to the changing color of the sky. Where the trees part, they frame the distant mountains. White mists clothe their cold feet, and above their heads a pale gold appears and the rays of the midwinter sun gleam brightly. Into a cauldron of iron the man casts a handful of herbs, and as the smoke rises, words of praise, of hope, and gratitude tremble from his lips.
This is the beginning… anticipation and the silence before the dawning of light. This is the true beginning of the Celtic year, for within the period of greatest darkness hides the potential of light, the promise of hope, of new life and growth. This is difficult to comprehend when the majority of nature slumbers, protected against the merciless energy of winter, the cold, frost, ice, and snow.
The old standing stones upon the moor wait in expectation of a new dawn. The memories of ancestors swim within them as they recall generations of people who flocked to them in anticipation of the sun’s rebirth. A hum of energy streams through the sacred landscape as the sun begins its journey toward the north.
This is the beginning… for upon the dawn of the winter solstice it all happens in a moment, and light is victorious, and death and darkness flee before the tiny bright ball that rises on the distant horizon. Slowly we emerge from the womb and tomb of the Samhain season, blinking in the new light that struggles to gain a foothold on the brightening horizon, and we turn our faces to greet the dawn and embark upon the journey of birthing.
Alban Arthan—A Druid Feast
The festival of Midwinter in the Welsh Celtic tradition is referred to as Alban Arthan, which marks the beginning of the season of hope, the initiation of the period of light and growth. It begins at dawn, normally on or around the 21st of December each year as the sun enters the astrological sign of Capricorn. In Celtic lore, the ancestors began the year on the morrow of the shortest day of the winter, that is, on the turn of the sun. This is the day of Alban Arthan or Midwinter Day. This Welsh, Druidic term for the season was coined by the legendary Iolo Morganwg in his 18th-century collection of bardic wonders, Barddas, and is now commonly used throughout the Druidic and Pagan movement to denote this festival.
The term itself is split into two components: alban, meaning “high point, regal, or supreme,” suggesting that the four Albans are the peaks or topmost sections of any season. They are the crescendo of energy, and the orgasmic climax of a particular cycle. Arthan is derived from arth, meaning “bear,” and refers to the constellation Ursa Minor (the little bear) that holds Polaris, the pole star, within its constellation. Coincidentally, the Ursid meteor showers have been visible from the northern hemisphere for the past century during the time of the winter solstice.
Alban Arthan heralds the midpoint of winter, and as the wheel sighs to a stop, the land falls under an ancient spell of silence and anticipation. The festivals that have long since marked this season have a myriad of names: Yule, Winter Solstice, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and Mistletide. They may be cultures apart, but they all share a commonality in that they invoke the powers of hope, warmth, and community. In the bleak midwinter, lights are hung about houses and trees or anything permanent enough to be adorned and decorated with festive cheer. But why do we do it? What is actually going on behind the scenes and between the words that we associate with the winter holiday season?
The Dance of Earth and Sun
It is remarkable to consider that our blue planet is three million miles closer to the sun during the dead of winter than it is in the height of summer. Poles apart, the northern hemisphere succumbs to the grip of winter, the southern hemisphere bathes in warm sunlight. So how can we be closer to the sun when we are in the grip of cold and darkness?
The magic of our planet’s peculiar orbital dance around the sun has little to do with the seasons here on earth. Our planet does not orbit the sun in an upright position but instead she pole dances, literally! Her poles turn their countenance to greet the sun, bowing their white faces toward or away from our star at a staggering tilt of twenty three and a half degrees. It is this exquisite dance of our poles that is the reason for the seasons. Our distance from the sun itself is of no consequence.
On the stage of life, and in the drama of the seasons, it is the magic of movement that turns the Wheel of the Year. During the height of midwinter, the earth reaches the furthest extent of her tilt away from the sun. She is almost leaning on her back, with the North Pole staring out into the depth of space; here the sun does not rise, and the nights bite long and cold. But further south we experience the delicious cold pinks of sunrise and sunsets, colors that are influenced by the angle of our planet and our view of the light.
The incoming solar energy is greatest in the southern hemisphere around December the 21st, and it is at its weakest in the northern hemisphere. It is this energy that is responsible for the magic of life here on our blue planet. And this is what we are moved to celebrate during the midpoint of winter.
When the Sun Stands Still
The word “solstice” is derived from two Latin words, sol, meaning “sun,” and sistere, meaning “to stand still,” which is exactly what appears to happen. At your locale, chart the rising of the sun each morning during the weeks following Samhain. As the year nears its midwinter point, you will notice that for around three days the sun appears to stop at a certain point on your horizon. This is the solstice phenomenon, the point where nature itself seems to hold its breath. Will it or won’t it? Will the sun move again? Will it turn on its heels and journey once more and bring summer?
It was this element of the unknown that caused our ancestors to erect enormous temple structures that marked the passage of the sun and its declination at the winter solstice. In our increasingly cynical world, our society pays little heed to the movement of the sun, our technologies have served to distance us from the songs of the seasons. In our centrally heated homes, stockpiled with food transported from the farthest reaches of the globe, we are secure in our technology and no longer in awe of the passage of the earth as she spins around the sun. But in stark contrast, our ancestors were utterly reliant on this knowledge—it was a matter of life and death.
When the wheel stops, we pause and take stock of the year that has passed and contemplate the year that is to come. As the sun stalls on its course through our skies, something within us remembers that this time is significant and the hopes and loves of countless generations sing from your genes, from the rivers and hills of the land. The sleeping trees stir to the call of this season and in the tomb of earth, deep in the dark soil, the plants that will stir the world into spring sense a calling so loud, so powerful that they cannot do anything but respond—but in time, all in good time.
For now we pause and watch as the wheel stops and the sun stands still. Our breaths catch in the pit of our throats, and a sense of anticipation moves the spirit to call to the sun—come back, come back!
The Great Wheel
As the secular world bows beneath the mighty hand of materialism and the blatant commercialism of the holiday season, others are taking a different view—I am talking to you. The Pagan traditions invoke a sense of being an inexorable part of the wheel, not simply an observer. This is why the study of the Wheel of the Year is a fundamental practice of the Pagan traditions; this is not passive observation, but rather active participation, and it moves us to an understanding that we are not separate. We are a part of the great wheel.
The opening paragraph of this article is not a depiction of fantasy; it describes my own personal ritual on the morning of the winter solstice. It is oddly devoid of flashing swords and flouncy robes—it is me with nature, as a part of nature, singing the praises of the sun as it rises on the morning of the shortest day. My prayers ask for its passage north again, toward growth and summer, and the trembling words are words of gratitude for the myriad of life forms its power brings.
Have you ever been out there on the eve of a dark and moonless solstice, the eve of the shortest day and longest night? Have you ever stood in the deepest darkness of a wild and forlorn place and felt this night, been there with it, danced with it, your body moving to the subtle rhythms of the earth? Have you taken time out of the glorious festivities to be with the night itself? If not, I encourage you to do so, to take an hour to stop and stand in the darkness and be fully present. Feel that energy, the sheer anticipation that only occurs upon this night, anticipation that most of us recall feeling as children three days later on Christmas Eve. This night has a hunger for new life. The world grows weary of the depth of dreams and sleep, and it calls for sunshine, for the warming rays to caress the voluptuous curves and folds of our green and sleeping earth. And we feel it too. It is here within us, this wonder and sense of expectation that we feel at this time of year. The crackle of energy sparks and flows through us as we sense a shift to the normal pattern of things.
Midwinter, Yule, the Winter Solstice—what memories do they call? In my position in the northwestern corner of Wales, on a small island that floats gracefully in the Celtic Sea, I am reminded of cold, crisp mornings. The warmth of our hearth is accentuated by candles that flicker and seem to mimic the power of the sun, and the air of our home is filled with the scent of cinnamon and pine, oranges and cloves. Spells and prayers are cast with words of power and intent onto the burning logs of the season, changing through fire into smoke as they ascend through the chimney to the realm of the gods. The air is filled with potential and anticipation.
This excitement and sense of apprehensive expectation masks the fact that we are aware that the merciless nature of winter is not over, and our spells reflect this, for the worst is almost certainly to come. We must face storms and plummeting temperatures, the death and diseases of winter. There is promise nonetheless, and although this season stretches from the edge of solstice to the very beginning of February, we are aware of how long this season feels. And so we gather together as communities, families, circles of friends, and groves and covens to mimic the power of the sun and imbibe warmth and joy into the heart of humanity.
Come join us on a journey in celebration of light…