This marks the seventh year in a row that I’ve observed the Winter Solstice by performing an overnight vigil with photos to mark the last sunset of the dying year, the deep of the night, and the first sunrise of the waxing year. The Winter Solstice is the wheel of the year event that resonates most strongly to me on a personal and spiritual level, and I hope I can continue observing it in my nerdy, artsy, little way for a long time. That said, this practice is also a challenging one in several ways. First and foremost among them, I live in the US Pacific Northwest, and before that I lived in the US state of Maine. If you have read many of these posts over the years you will know that finding art and beauty while specifically looking toward the setting or rising sun is an ongoing challenge in places where heavy cloud cover is the norm in December. While twenty-eighteen’s “A Solstice in Gray” was perhaps an aesthetic low point in these vigil essays, twenty-twenty-three definitely put the screws to me. I hope you enjoy what I managed to wring out of Oregon this year regardless.
Sunset - Orchard in Parkdale
That heading was intended to read “Mt Hood from Parkdale.” I worked hard in the days leading up to the solstice to find a location where I could shoot the setting sun alongside my region’s most striking volcano. Don’t get me wrong, there are many places to shoot fabulous photos of Mt Hood, but not at this time of year, when the axis of the setting sun puts it south/southwest of the mountain and many roads are impassable without a high ground clearance 4x4 with chains. So you can imagine my excitement at finding a location that would give me a beautiful view for what should have been a fantastic shot.
Of course, as has happened in many solstice vigils past, the weather did not cooperate. In front of my camera as I took this photo, less than seven miles away and past the impenetrable fog, stands the eleventh most prominent peak in the continental USA. I had naively thought that being so close, even a weather forecast of “cloudy” wouldn’t prevent me from at least having Hood in the photo, even if clouds might obscure the setting sun itself.
Oops.
Still, part of the challenge of doing this project is to make art and find beauty in this moment. We endure the Longest Night by reminding ourselves of joy, wonder, family, and light, until the sun returns at the dawn of the waxing year. Despite being nothing like what I’d imagined, I am honestly pretty happy with this photo. The orchard yearns for the sun, reaching up to the empty sky, as we all turn our faces towards the light in the face of onrushing darkness. The photo looks barren at first blush, but in its own way, it speaks of hope, and the faith that summer will return. That’s a reminder I need from time to time.
Deep of the Night - Aurora Projector
“If you don’t have stunning skies in your Longest Night, store bought is fine.”
Thanks to a combination of fortunate and unfortunate events, my whole household was off of work for the Solstice. That meant I had family around me much longer into the evening than I’m accustomed to, which was absolutely lovely. We ate a good home cooked meal and watched movies late into the night, but in the end, they eventually sought their beds. As has become tradition, the vigil in fullness is mine to sit alone. The lonely solitude of the Long Night is as always, at once familiar and a bit frightening.
In a pattern that has become annoyingly familiar from years and vigils gone by, my original deep of the night photo didn’t work out. My backup idea was foiled by a thick fog and cloud cover that followed me home from Parkdale. So here is the result of my third string idea. Though again, I actually really like what this photo says. I know the aurora projector is just a cheap toy, but it consistently brings me so much pleasure (both with and without consciousness-altering substances), that I just unironically adore the little lump of plastic.
The Longest Night, and everything it can represent, is a dark time. There is a lot we can do to relieve some of that darkness, such as spending time with loved ones or creating art. But we shouldn’t discount the simple, somewhat selfish (selfish isn’t an inherently bad word) things that brighten up the world or lift up our hearts. We don’t have to simply accept the dark, we can beat it back with whatever tools are at our disposal, and if sometimes that means being shiny, flamboyant, and a bit plastic, so be it.
Sunrise - Dirksen Nature Park
What had been a pounding rain is just slackening off as I get to Dirksen to greet the first dawn of the waxing year. Between age and illness, and unlike when I started this project, these days I don’t feel safe driving hours to get to a picturesque spot for a sunrise photo after being awake for more than a day. Even with that caveat, knowing how poor the weather would be for sunrise, I have aired on the side of being kind to myself, and have chosen an easy location even if it meant a less than spectacular photo.
Still, there are rules to how this works. The AR function on the Photographer’s Ephemeris app assures me that the sun is in fact in this photo, unseen though it may be.
In the scheme of photography work I’ve done in the last ten years, this photo is pretty meh. In other circumstances, it likely would not warrant being shared publicly. But today, in this context, that’s appropriate too. I have done very little photography since moving to Oregon. I had not realized how deeply my visual voice was tied to Maine and its waters, until I found myself out here, in a strange place that is just familiar enough to be uncanny. More than once, I’ve considered taking Winter Wind Photography’s website down and canceling the recurrent charges I pay for a variety of photography-related services central to the work I now barely do.
But… I’m not ready to do that. I know I still have things to say with my photography (and my writing for that matter), even if I’m not sure I know how to say them right now. Like the moss clinging stubbornly to the branch in this picture, I am not ready to let go.
So I will hang on, and see what the waxing year has to bring to my life and to my art/work. It is a new year after all.