Along with most everyone in Key West, late in the afternoon, I watch the sunset. Dazzled by the beauty I chase a primitive urge to honor the event. The gold disc that is the sun hits the horizon and throws down what looks like a glistening path of mercury spilling on the ocean surface, scattering right to my feet. After the daylight fades and the temperature drops and commingles with hints of jasmine, I push off, counting on the wellspring of belief that after the darkness and the frights of the night there will once again be a new strong life-giving sun. Walking from the beach, saying goodbye to the day as much as hello to the night and the popping stars, I remember noticing the claw-tipped paw prints of dogs in the sand.
In some Slavic countries Christmas is called Bozhich, which means little god. While clearly this cleaves to the Christian concept of Christmas, the name is likely of pagan origin. The myth revolved around worship of the birth of a young, new god of the sun replacing the old, weakened solar deity on the night of December 21st, the winter solstice, the longest night of the year.
Like members of a cult we revere light, endowing it with supernatural hope. We perform rituals of light-worship for the new day, New Year, new life. Firecrackers for every day of the week. Forms of encouragement to help endure the dark, as we lumber toward the nourishing brightness.
A bartender with a twisted hemp ponytail told me he believes he has witnessed the local Serbian population, “Very late at night,” he said, taking a long pull on his filterless cigarette, “They turn into werewolves.”
“They transmogrify!” He said, and whistled out blue smoke. “Watch out!” He said. ”You’ll only catch a glimpse! Like the end of a tail going around a corner!” I almost believed him. And then he said, “With my own two eyes, like, I’ve seen them, heard them, in the woods, carrying on.”
Around this time of year the Keys are washed by cataclysmic storms, noisy and powerful and short, almost frightening although soon supplanted with a dripping sticky musk air, aromatic as a bakery. But last night, amid the thunder and lightning, I distinctly heard howling, and I shivered.
We distort shapes from shadows and hear our name in the wind. In the murk we are inclined to see what is not. And in the shade we double up any illumination, using bounce, like a face lit by a candle flame.
While writing can often feel like grappling in the dark my motivation is the radiant bounce reflecting from the satisfaction of the reader and thereby brightening the life of the writer.
Bounce, in this case, is thank you. Thank you for making the writing so very enjoyable. The pleasure is entirely due to you reading it. Thank you for your time.
I wish all of you the merriest of partying, pagan or otherwise.