23.5°

Whatever rituals you may chose to celebrate this time of year, they are all owed to this one small measurement: 23.5°. That spritz cookie you're holding right now? You can thank 23.5° for it. You can curse 23.5° later in January when you step on the scale, too.

Yesterday we observed the winter solstice, which is the shortest day, and therefore longest night, of the year. In the northern hemisphere we experience the briefest amount of daylight on this day due to the tilt of the Earth's axis, which is, of course, 23.5°. Well, 23.44° to be more accurate, but who calls a blog entry 23.44° anyways. This tilt means that observers on Earth see the sun as not rising very high into the sky, but instead persisting at a low height. Hence the name solstice, which loosely translates as "sun standing still."

You can call this stretch of festival days by many names: Saturunalia, Yule, The Long Night, Lenaea, Hanukkah, Soyal, Christmas. You may even celebrate one of the many "wonder children," or "man-gods": Osiris, Mithras, Apollo, Dionysus, Jesus.

Life depends on the natural cycle of the seasons for survival. While the monotheistic religions of the world tend to think of time as linear, it is more appropriate to think of time as cyclic. Our survival is linked to the sun, and therefore the seasons. The sowing, the growing, the reaping…and, eventually, what I like to call the pleading.

Our existence hasn't always included indoor plumbing, plasma TVs, or microwavable lunches. Imagine living in a cave. It's cold. Your ewes aren't producing milk because there aren't any lambs, your garden has retreated, you are more vulnerable to sickness, there isn't much to hunt and gather. At this point you can see the fir tree out back of the cave, some of that parasitic mistletoe creeping up the leafless oak, and if you're lucky, a bit of holly with berries. There are snowflakes and icicles and pinecones everywhere, but what good are they? Even worse, you've noticed that the days are getting mighty short, will the sun even rise tomorrow? How are you going to deal with your seasonal affective disorder if it doesn't? You question, you doubt, you worry. And just when you are at the point where you fall to the ground and cry, "AHW MY GAHWD, I am so afraid--bring the sun back, I BEG YOU!" there is a pause. The sun hovers. It is still in the sky, and it grows.

I cannot possibly emphasize how crucial an event this is to celebrate.

Rejoice, northern readers! Today the sun is born anew.