It is the Winter Solstice. In the cold we huddle around the fire, joined in our communities. At the dark time of year, when the days are short, we celebrate the light. During this time I often imagine ancient peoples in their shelters, with a roof smoke hole above the fire, bringing evergreen boughs inside, so the green reminds them that spring will come again. I even wrote a song about this fantasy called Deep Winter’s Night.

I was encouraged in this fantasy first by the Megalithic monument Stonehenge oriented towards the Summer Solstice. I felt that these people in 2500 BCE were quite attuned to the interaction between the light of the heavens, and the earth on which we still walk. I was amazed at how, what I thought of as a primitive people could orient such a large monument to the sun on one day per year.

When I saw the older Megalithic Passage tomb at Newgrange north of Dublin Ireland, built in 3200 BCE I was further gobsmacked. There is a transom window over the entrance and on the Winter Solstice at sunrise a beam of sunlight comes through the transom and illuminates the altar on which cremated remains were placed. The sunbeam, archeologists speculate, was believed to enable the passage of the spirit from one plane to another.

This fit with my fantasy of the hope of light at the darkest time of the year.

Then I had a “flat forehead moment,” so-called because I have repeatedly struck my forehead with the heal of my hand over the years exclaiming, “Duh!” or “Doh” (like Homer Simson). What prompted this epiphany of blindingly obvious perspective dissonance?

In Australia, New Zeeland, South Africa, Peru and Antarctica it is the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year. So my annual fantasy is a completely Northern-Hemisphere-centric viewpoint.

Apologies to those who live south of the equator, who may say –“Wha?” And people who come from around the equator where the days are the same length year round, and in most places around the equator one will not be huddling around a fire and bringing conifers inside.

Moreover, this ancient Winter Solstice fantasy is probably a Euro-paleo-centric perspective representing a narrow slice of all the ancient ancestors on the planet.  I have trouble imagining this behavior among Aleuts and Innuits at the Arctic circle or the Navaho, Kiowa, Osage, Chickasaw, Choctaw, or Calusa in what became the United States.

Duh!” Or I think I’m gonna go with “Doh,” because I feel as clueless as Homer.

Here is the story of the triggering of this realization.

As I started my annual rumination on our Winter Solstice and the many festivals of light at this our dark time of year, I observed that Hanukkah, the eight night Jewish celebration, starts on Christmas night this year. It moves dates on the Gregorian calendar as result of the six thousand year old lunar calendar used to fix dates of religious celebrations.

I wondered about lunar calendars. Did hunter gatherers use the phases of the moon to track the movements of animals and know which plants yielded edible food? I dunno. My parents would have sent me to the Encyclopedia Britannica in our living room. “Look in up.” And I still do, though on the Internet version. It turns out that lunar calendars are very old. Archeologists have found some evidence of lunar calendars in caves in Southern France that may be as old as 32,000 BCE.

In the third millennium BCE the lunisolar calendar emerged, lunar months and solar years. In addition to Hebrews, the Sumerians, Assyrians and ancient Egyptians had a lunisolar calendar.

“Ah,” I said. “the growth of agriculture?” The moon in her phases pulled upon the waters of the Mediterranean, the Tigris, Euphrates and Nile nourishing the plants that the Mother brought forth. Perhaps with the growth of astronomy in Egypt and Greece solar calendars came to the fore. The distant Sky Father, seeming larger than the Earth, was entrusted with man’s invention, Time.

Lunar calendars now are really lunisolar calendars because there is always an addition of a month every two to three years to maintain accuracy with the ubiquitous 1582 Pope Gregory XIII sponsored DayRunner. China, Mongolia, Korea, Japan, Thailand, Vietnam, and the Banks Islands, part of the nation of Vanuatu in Melanesia in the South Pacific, are all on a lunisolar calendar for cultural celebrations.

It is also true that many religions, including Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism  schedule religious festivals according to lunisolar calendars

This brought me back to a puzzle I have always wrestled with. Christianity adopted the pagan Winter Solstice celebration, light at the dark time. It appeared that Judaism did too, Chanukah (traditional spelling). But Diwali, Hindu festival of lights is in the fall. And Islam celebrates light  at Eid at the end of Ramadan in the spring.

Here comes the flat forehead moment.

In the home of these religions, what I thought of as the Winter Solstice, cold, snow, seemingly dead deciduous trees, sprinkled with some evergreens, short days, dark time of year, needing to see the light and be hopeful, wasn’t really like that.

“Doh!”

It is however more than a little interesting that these religions have their own festival of lights. So the timing matters less than my Northern Hemisphere, Euro-paleo-pagan genes would indicate.

There is a cycle of dark and light, of fear and hope, of individual independence, joining hands in community and peace.

We may celebrate that cycle at different times of the year in different seasons, but we all celebrate. We all long for community to wrap us in love. We all hope and feel peace in our hearts.

So whether you celebrate at this time of year or not, whether there is a tree in your living room or a shrine, whether there is a fire or candle you gather at, reach for those you love and those you barely know, and share your hope for the light, and your love.

Peace be upon you, and all of us.

This picture was on a birthday card I received last week.

It is a real photo of Rolland “Rollie” Free setting the motorcycle land speed record on the Bonneville Salt Flats September 13, 1948 eleven months after I was born. Rollie Free raced Indian motorcycles before World War II. He set a record at 111 miles per hour. He served in the Air Force and was stationed in Utah near Bonneville during the war.

Rollie had a bone to pick with Harley-Davidson, which had apparently reneged on an offer to support his racing career. He “acquired” and retuned the Vincent Black Shadow from its owner John Edgar for the specific purpose of breaking the Harley record.

During the first runs in Rollie’s signature prone style, the wind ripped his leathers and he was still below his goal of over 150 mph. He stripped down to a borrowed bathing suit, cap, and swim shoes and set the record, (150.313 miles per hour) apparently mindless of the equivalent of coarse sand paper under his bike wheels.

The record stood till 1950 when he broke it again (152mph) and again in 1960 (160.78 mph), but he fell off the bike and quit racing motorcycles. He still raced cars. He died in 1984 and was inducted into the American Motorcyclist hall of fame posthumously in 1998.

There is something admirable in the passion, single-mindedness and zeal to “do whatever it takes.” If I’m honest, possessing that attitude has been quite beneficial in my life. However, there is a line between passion and prudence, between purposeful and perilous, between enthusiastic and foolhardy. That’s a line you often don’t see until you’ve crossed it.

People called Rollie “borderline insane,” “hyper-competitive to a fault, and a “regular nut job.”

I have never done anything like Rollie Free, but in my life, I have been called “gung ho ,”all-in,” and a “work-machine.” I have sometimes taken extraordinary risks to make something work.

 In 1967 I was in a summer stock production of Peter Pan. At nineteen, I was assigned to head the flying crew. We were on a budget so the director ordered flying harnesses without pullies or hydraulic assists. He wanted Rena, playing Peter, to fly in from offstage and up to the top of a scenery cave that stood about twelve feet above the stage. I determined the only way to make that happen was for the flying tech (me) to jump off the catwalk by the third pin rail offstage in the fly gallery to the one by the second pin rail a distance of fifteen feet. If I missed I would fall about twenty feet to the hardwood stage floor.

This maneuver worked in rehearsal. In performance one of the two flying harness guy wires broke and I sent Rena up and into the back of the proscenium. Fortunately, Rena wasn’t physically injured, and finished the performance, but may suffer from PTSD to this day. (Rena, I am deeply sorry.)

Still it took me a while to realize that “whatever it takes,” isn’t always the safe strategy. I worked full-time for a consulting firm in my second year of business school, which meant that I often worked into the night. I came home once at 1:00 am, and had just fallen asleep, when my pregnant wife, nudged me and said “it’s time.”

I said, “Try to go back to sleep.” That did not go over well.

I was slow to learn.

I worked hundred-hour weeks, which the people I worked for loved, but which ultimately made me sick. I was the only independent consultant I ever met who went to work for himself and worked less than I did as an employee.

I trained for a marathon and learned first-hand about the dehydration headaches and nausea of over-training. Several pricey speeding tickets and one thirty-day license suspension taught me “don’t drive faster; leave earlier.” I learned to manage my workload through the not-so-simple task of saying, ”No” to more work.

Years of working for chemical and oil and gas clients increased by awareness of personal and process safety. I still have the urge to stand on the top step of a ladder, but I have learned to get a bigger ladder, or to hire someone else to do work at heights.

I still describe myself, by saying “whatever I do I really do.” Now, however, that describes my ability to intensely focus. I’m still learning that I must intersperse, my “whatever it takes” with some mindless distraction and family and friends time.

So I’m rarely found doing Rollie Free stuff anymore, not even scaled down to my level. Everybody grows up sometime.

But, I guess, my reputation lingers:

To tell you the truth, I’m exhausted.

I mean, I did manage to hold my pee till first light, and that seemed to make my man happy, but it wasn’t easy. I mean, I am so thirsty all the time and I drank a whole bowl since bedtime.

But wait, I’m forgetting my manners.

Hello, my name is Pip. I’m a twelve year old Black English Labrador Retriever (see my perfect bicycle seat head). And yes, I said black. You can politely ignore all that gray. I am twelve and I live with two humans whose age totals over 150, so I earned every ounce of silver I wear.

My man, who calls himself, Alan, and my lady, who calls herself, Billie (I know it’s a man’s name, but her father was William and you get used to it), anyway they named me Pip, because my mom’s human said I was “a pip.” They thought it was soooo cute, they made it my name. It’s OK I guess. I mean, I answer to it, but I have to be puppy-stubborn to live up to it and that gets old.

We live on Eagle Ridge. There’s a field one street over. Humans get excited about the buildings you can see from it. “New York City! I love the field too, but for more important reasons, the swirl of smells and my all-time favorite snack- Deer Poop! Mmm-mmm.

Things have been crazy on the Ridge of late

Some guys came and moved all the furniture on the second floor to the garage.

Then some other guys tore up my soft rug and pounded like crazy so now there is wood where the rug was.

My humans got a smaller rug, and they put another rug where I used to sleep, but it has a busy pattern so I don’t sleep there. I don’t sleep in my bed anymore either; it smells like soap now. To tell you the truth I never liked it; I just l slept in it when I was freaked because it reminded me of the one I had when I first came to live with them. So I sleep on the wood, which makes it hard to get up because my back legs don’t work like they used to – I mean, they work when I’m standing and walking, but it’s hard to get a grip on those slippy floors and stairs.

Stairs! The second floor is up fifteen stairs. All right – it’s seven and seven with a rest area, but the new stairs rug is only in the middle so I can’t brace myself against the wall anymore.

After they wooded the floors and stairs, my humans went away. That’s usually nice for me because I get to stay with David and Bhakti who once took me on hikes before I got too slow. Who wants to keep up with pups who don’t take time to smell anything. I stayed with a new human family. They had a pool and were surprised when I didn’t swim. The humans were nice and the other dogs were cool, but my humans came home sick.

“Covid,” They said into the black boxes they’re always staring at. So they didn’t go away again, but I did. This time to David and Bhakti.

My humans got better. I guess they weren’t that sick.

Then there was the week-long dogfight between the furnace guy who swore there wasn’t enough gas to run the furnace and the utility guy who said there was plenty of gas. In the end the driveway and the yard were dug up and the big gray pipes-‘n’-stuff is outside of garage, which the gas guy said the state required, but they don’t. The only thing all humans, (mine, the neighbors, the home owners association) agree on is that it is “ugly” and anything done to mask it or move it, my humans have to pay for.

The pipes-‘n’-stuff doesn’t smell much now, but it’s a big tall thing that’ll attract male dog pee-mail- Bonus!

Then my humans sad-talked about Billie’s sister, who fell and is having a hard time. Billie’s brother came down. His wife’s had the can-sick  (more human sad-face talk).  She’s getting better, but he’s still worried.

Anyway, they were going to leave me alone again to visit their sister, but I was drinking all this water and had to pee every two hours, so my man stayed home with me. He counted the times he filled my bowl. “128 ounces!” He exclaimed when they returned.

So we went to the vet lady, with some of my pee in a bottle and they stuck me with a needle again. I hate that.

That night I had more trouble on the stairs and got up four times to pee.

Such an ordeal! – bark-to-wake-humans–put-on-my-harness-go-downstairs-drink-a-lot-of water-go-outside-to-pee-come-in-drink-a-lot-of-water and go back upstairs – four times. I heard my man say into the black thing “We get up at night to pee too, but she isn’t choosing the same times.”

We all went to the vet lady again. All the humans had frowny-faces, except when they talked to me and put on that voice that they think dogs and babies want to hear. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but I know I’m a “pretty girl” and I don’t need to be told so in a squeaky voice.

“Die-Beet-Ez” I don’t know what it is, but my humans learned how to use needles, not the big kind – I barely feel them.

The stair trips are scary for them so they are taking turns sleeping downstairs. It was my man’s turn last night and he slept on the floor. “Couch is too soft for my back and I don’t really fit in it.”

As I said, I really worked to hold my pee until first light. I’m going to sleep around today.                                                                                

I wish they wouldn’t worry so much. Sure they’ve cut back my treats, changed my dinner time, and he joined me on the floor, but that’s why I trained them. They’ll adapt.

That’s what humans do – worry. They watch the picture box in the den every night, look sad and worry. I can’t watch that stuff – I bark to go out on the deck till they watch something that makes them laugh.

This morning though, they just looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, shook their heads and laughed. Then my man started to sing and my lady joined in.

“We ain’t got a barrel of money. We may look ragged and funny, but we’re travelin’ along, singing a song. Side by side.”

I love it when they do that.