unto us a sun is born

I awoke suddenly at two and stumbled out of bed to see if any of the lunar eclipse was still visible, but I had slept through it all. The show was over. Sort of.

The moon was now full and round and bright as it slipped in and out of storm clouds. We've been pummeled with some pretty heavy rain lately, thunder and lightening, even hail. But at that moment, although the sky looked threatening, all was calm. I wondered if we would be able to make our usual trek up the mountain for the solstice and our anniversary. We were married on top of Mount Tamalpais at sunrise so we return every year, like the sun, in a celebration of life.

By six the storm was still holding, so up we went precariously in the dark, wondering what we would encounter. 2574 feet up, at the eastern ridge, we were completely engulfed in an ocean of dismal wet fog. One can usually see for miles up there but this morning we could barely see beyond our noses. But we were there.

Then, at precisely 7:21 (every year, without fail, 7:21) a tiny slip of light shot through the dark. "The sun!" I cried. "No," my husband cautioned, "That can't be it." We scrambled to the spot where we exchanged vows. "Look! Loooook!" All that was before us was a solid grey wall but the sun burned right through. Then the most phenomenal, spectacular thing happened in a matter of seconds. That massive grey shroud that surrounded us suddenly turned to a cloak of gold. Millions and millions of water molecules were reflecting the golden light of the sun! I have never seen anything like it. It took my breath full away.

No matter how dark and dismal the horizon, keep climbing that mountain. Never give up hope. The light will come.

Winter Solstice 2010 by Melanie Renn

Winter Solstice 2010 by Melanie Renn