Sadness and happiness on the shortest day

The sun went into hiding on this the shortest day of the year. Not only are the mountains invisible, but half the lake is enveloped in mist. The boats near the shore look like they are suspended in air with no line of demarcation between the grey lake and the grey sky.

I have bought my tree (shown in the photo) as the dark half of the year gives way to the light half. For centuries many cultures and religions have celebrated the return to light. Under the old calendar, the longest day fell on 24 December. The Romans celebrated Saturnalia for an entire week.

The celebration’s name doesn’t really matter to me. I have my tree.

Granted, it is a tiny tree, but it is real, and hopefully it will survive to find a place in the garden in the spring.
Downstairs is an artificial tree that is beautifully decorated, its lights warming the ambience of the room.

But, still I don’t really feel like I have had a true Christmas unless there’s a real tree. Some years a wreath has been a substitute. Last year we didn’t have anything because my Mom doesn’t bother anymore.

Now that the tree is in I can enjoy the rest of Christmas week activities.

I chose to celebrate the day with mundance chores and with slowness that let me appreciate the time I have and the winter solstice deserves.

As I rode downtown on the bus, the trees in the Christmas tree marché along the quai were thinning out. Above them were the masts of boats, which the trees hid, making the masts look like strange parts of the tree.

As Jean-Pierre cut my hair, I noticed a woman in the apartment across the street sitting in a window. I showed him. “She does that a lot,” he said leading me to the sink for a shampoo and a good ten-minute head message.

She was gone when we went back to the cutting place. I pointed it out.

“She’s gone for a cigarette,” he told me. And he was right. She returned and I could see her hand go up and down to her mouth.

I ran the last of my errands and decided to eat downtown. As tempting as the salmon in tarragon sauce at La Verandra was, I opted for sushi at Mikado. I will be heading back to Argelès on the 28th and sushi will become rare. Salmon will not be.

Many of the small shop windows were posting their closing hours, including all the days between Christmas and New Years. It is what I love about Geneva at Christmas—the sense of total downtime. Not only do many offices (not the multi-nationals, department stores, hotels) close, but so do many of the restaurants. Today Le Bleu Matin, the daily give away paper published its last issue until 4 January. I may never find out what is error number 7 in the two drawings where you have to figure out what the differences are. 1-6 were easy.

A lot of people here take the two weeks off getting the most time off for the least used holiday.*

Back home I looked at www.revels.org (which I loved to attend when I lived in Boston. It too celebrated the Solstice) only to discover that Revels founder John Langstaff who led us from the auditorium into the main hall of Sanders Theatre, which looked medieval as we all sang Lord of the Dance had passed away at 84. I click so I can listen to him sing one last time. He died here in Switzerland. Here is NPR’s tribute. www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5055415 I learned he was born on 24 December and somehow learning of his death on the darkest day of the year, is indeed fitting.

Later tonight I will go to the train station, pick up my friend from Paris and the week of celebrations, of seeing friends, of sharing dinners, will begin…except it already has begun for me with one small tree.