I've always loved Christmas. Growing up Greek Orthodox, it was never as important as the Easter festival but nevertheless was a time to fast for 40 days then feast on sugar biscuits and spiced cakes, surrounded by family, friends and gifts. I loved the hushed silence of Christmas Eve, the scent of frankincense and myrrh my mother would burn — and the anticipation. I loved the aura of magic and mystery that came from the laden tree and the night sky. And I loved the story of baby Jesus in his manger surrounded by gentle animals; a lullaby while I slept.
Yet with this narrative came the supplanting of other traditions, other myths. Something in me knew this was an older, more elemental festival. As I grew older, I learnt that the Ancient Egyptian god Osiris and the Greek solar gods Helios and Apollo were also celebrated on 25 December. So where did the 12 days of Christmas come from? Why do we ‘deck the halls with boughs of holly’? What’s the story with this big, jolly saint who brings children presents?
Christmas has always been a celebration of light. These traditions of ours originate in midwinter rituals that date back tens of thousands of years. In the Northern Hemisphere, the winter solstice (in Latin, ‘’) marks the shortest day and longest night, and usually begins on 21 December lasting until the 25th. In pre-Christian times, this was a festival of the rebirth of the light. Here in Australia, my family celebrates midsummer as well as the northern festival of Yule. We rejoice in the summer’s turning, the longest days of heat, the time of stone fruits and sweetness, lush gardens and sunset swims. We bring the fullness of light into our lives.
We rejoice in the summer’s turning, the longest days of heat, the time of stone fruits and sweetness, lush gardens and sunset swims
This year, my family will honour traditions more ancient than our familiar Christian rites. For decades I felt unconnected to my Germanic, Anglo-Saxon and Irish Celtic heritage as my strong association with Greek culture gained ascendancy, but since our teenage daughter has begun studying the pre-Roman path of Druidry and learning Gaelic, we feel it’s time for a revival of our ancestral rites. In ancient Celtic times, druids, priests and priestesses honoured the festival of (or Alban Arthan) — also known as Yule — at the winter solstice. Our daughter has immersed herself in the rituals of her distant ancestors and is looking forward to teaching us the deep lore she has learned over the past year. She finds meaning and symbolism in the plants which surround us, in our waterways and in the green frogs, dragonflies, butcher birds, black cockatoos and native bees who visit us at this time of year.
This is the third year we’ve lived on acreage bordering National Park, and the first time I've ever felt intimately connected to a piece of land and a place. This sense of belonging has become even more profound since our property was engulfed by bushfires just before Christmas 2019. Since then, I feel an intense love for every surviving tree, bird and kangaroo here. Living with the turning of the seasons has allowed us to tap into slower, more meaningful relationships with our environment. We have become acutely aware of nature’s rhythms and have begun to implement the observances of the , comprising the eight feasts of the Summer Solstice, Lughnasadh, Autumn Equinox, Samhuinn, Winter Solstice, Spring Equinox, Imbolc and Beltaine.
I feel an intense love for every surviving tree, bird and kangaroo here. Living with the turning of the seasons has allowed us to tap into slower, more meaningful relationships with our environment
This midsummer, we will light beeswax candles and home-made lanterns. We will make garlands with our friends from the flowers blossoming in our garden. We’ll dance and sing until the sun sets, then settle down and tell stories, recite poetry and re-tell the old myths of our ancestors. At dawn, after everyone goes home, my daughter and I will greet the rising sun and wash our faces with the morning dew which beads on every grass blade. We will gather healing herbs from our garden, as they are at their most potent at this time of year. Young girls like our daughter and her friends will float their garlands on the water of our nearby river after the solstice has passed.
At this time of year, we’ll bring holly, ivy and pinecones into our home with the Christmas tree, as the Romans did during , their sun festival honouring nature and fertility, sending holly boughs to each other and hanging them in their temples. The Druids' sacred mistletoe will hang from our rafters and we will burn an actual Yule log (not a chocolate cake!) on our outdoor sacred fire (bans permitting) — though not for 12 days and nights as practiced by Nordic and Germanic peoples of the sixth century. It won’t be oak or ash wood but one of our charred eucalypts from the 2019 fires. We’ll have ato drink from — hot mulled apple cider with honey, cinnamon, cloves, ginger and nutmeg, and bake buckwheat spice cakes to eat with luscious local mangoes and cherries.
It doesn’t matter what we call these festivals: Christmas, Yule, Summer or Winter Solstice. They are all ways to connect to something more meaningful than our daily existence
We will also pay our respects to our embattled natural environment and honour the spirits of the place in which we live. Looking into the fire, we’ll meditate on these ever-constant seasonal changes and surrender to the fact that they’re mirrored in us, in our bodies and minds, in the spiral cycles of our lives and deaths.
So, this Christmas I’ll take time to remember the season’s message of love, peace and joy. But I will also pay homage to deeper, wilder traditions. It doesn’t matter what we call these festivals: Christmas, Yule, Summer or Winter Solstice. They are all ways to connect to something more meaningful than our daily existence, a chance to dive under the surface of the ordinary and experience the divine.
