The bleak mid-winter makes me think about Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising. Though set in roughly contemporary times (in this case the late sixties or early seventies of the last century), the novel evokes a sense of timelessness. The timelessness of a purported struggle between the powers of light and dark, the timelessness of time itself available to those–the Old Ones–who have the gift of time travel and transcendence. Though Cooper’s treatment of the Light and the Dark may perhaps be a bit simplistic and even Manichean, she does a masterful job of plumbing the depths of northern European pagan and Christian traditions, and especially those of Winter, to create not only her setting, but also much of the powerful imagery and plot of her story.
The protagonist, Will Stanton, awakens on his 11th birthday to find that he is not what he thought he was. Besides belonging to a Gloucestershire farming family, he also belongs to a global race of people–the Old Ones–who not only have magical powers, but who are also locked in a seemingly eternal struggle with the power of the Dark. The details of the novel are not important for my purpose here, but the use Cooper makes of the festival and traditions of Christmas, as well as certain pagan notions, is. In particular, she draws on the ancient idea that before the powers of evil can enter a dwelling, they must be invited in. But once in, they can be very difficult to evict. She also makes effective use of the imagery of light and dark and cold. In this case, the cold is part of the power of the Dark, and as its power rises in the novel, the coldest winter in English memory locks the countryside in its icy grip.
In one particularly memorable scene, the Dark is invited in to a dwelling, and the result is that once across the threshold, the Dark literally snuffs out light and heat. The fires vanish, the candles go out, and a cold sets in that seems beyond natural winter. This cold is numbing to the inhabitants who are all, except a few of the Old Ones, unaware of the true reason for the cold and darkness.
This inviting of the Dark in is what comes to mind in this season. If we were to keep Christmas all the year, then the light–the imagery of stars, of Christmas tree lights, and Advent candles–would need to shine through the year for us. If, as I asserted in my first post, transcendence is central to the idea of Christmas, then to keep Christmas all the year we would need to keep a sense of transcendence all that time. Further, that transcendence must be a source of light, the light in the darkness. And yet. As we trudge our way through this bleak time (and especially this bleak pandemic time), we face a choice every day. We can choose to open ourselves to others, to broader experiences, to the very idea that no one of us is the center of the universe, though we would like to be. And yet. That openness often seems so difficult. As we focus more and more on our own woes, we metaphorically ask the darkness in, and once in, it empowers us to slam the door closed on the world around us. We may fear the cold, the isolation, but like we probe a sore tooth with the tip of the tongue, we can relish the cold and the dark, the symbols of our own obstinence, our own selfishness, our own small-mindedness, our own despair of finding warmth. We can let it reign over us, and close the doors to that which is greater than we are. Once that door closes, the candles go out, the fire is gone, the light of Christmas is extinguished.
So the mid-winter, the bleak mid-winter comes as a metaphorical question mark. Will we give in to our worst natures and draw the darkness inside of ourselves, shutting the world out? Or will we try to find and reveal light, even during the longest days of the year? To draw this contrast so starkly–as one of light and dark–does not make the choice, the conviction to follow through, easy. But it is a way to understand the metaphor behind some of our ancient traditions. It is a way to allow them to help us through this darkest of times.
–Alfred Reeves Wissen, February 2021