Christmas

I am advancing through the woods with a pair of sharp kitchen scissors in hand, my heading set by a gleam of green. It’s early, the sun is only just edging around the Ben in the east. Light filters weakly through wet air, softening the edges of birch and oak around me – but not the sharp points of the holly tree I am here to see.

The ground underneath is littered with leaves blown from the oaks further up the bank, mouldering shades of burgundy and brown, and a pair of yellowing ribwort leaves missed by the deer, by the winter, protected maybe by the lower holly branches.

This single holly tree sits brightly by a group of pale birch. It is tall, half my height again, but still a sapling. The crown leaves have not yet forgotten their need to be spiky. Nearby, the trunk of a young rowan has been fractured by the shouldering weight of stags: its broken branches demonstrate how far the holly needs to grow before it is out of the deer’s browsing reach.

Holly is common in the understory of oakwoods, even a tiny one like this. When faced with the emptiness of dark gnarled wood, you can see why its shine and colour are so closely associated with Christmas and yuletide. Evergreen and crimson, it is a burst of brightness as we approach the depths of winter. The smooth verdant surface of the leaves invites touch – were it not for those points that snag and scratch. And fruit that ripens in winter is a gift, though it needs a frost to sweeten the bitter berries for the birds that will eat and disperse its seeds.

It is too young to be prolific in fruit yet, this wee tree that could live for 300 years if left alone. Will these woods even be here then? At first, I spot only one berry, and, having just been reading Robin Wall Kimmerer, I pause before snipping the branch. In Braiding Sweetgrass, she writes about the Honourable Harvest, the agreement between people and land in which you take only what you need: ‘Never take the first. Never take the last. … Leave some for others’.

I take a photo of the one red berry instead. However, the longer I stand there, getting my eye in, waiting for the morning light to curl around the tree’s tips, more red starts to pop out. Eventually I spy a branch with a cluster of three little berries. I step in closer, scissors ready. This scant trio are less than half of what the tree still holds, and they are exactly what I need.

It would be easy to miss the winter solstice, living as we do in a world of artificial light. Walking at night across the field by our house, the eye is drawn away from the black hill, towards the warmth of home. Light spills out of our north-facing windows, falling onto the oak tree like snow. I can go inside, close the curtains, and pay no heed to the rising and setting of the sun.

On the 21^st of December, the northern half of planet Earth was on a tilt away from our central star. While the Southern hemisphere was enjoying its longest day, we were as far from the sun as we would get in the course of the year, pointing out into cold space. But how we must twinkle in that darkness.

When I was wee, we would look out for the Christmas trees as they popped up one by one, fairy lights brightening the otherwise dark houses. My children now do the same. We live in a world where it is easy to harness the energy previously captured from the sun. Whether that energy comes from solar panels, or by burning oil, coal, or wood, or even from wind power, all depend on the sun at some point in their existence – and so do we. And so we take that stored sunlight and release it back into our lives.

There was a time when our dependence on the sun shaped the course of our days more directly than it does now. Our genetic ancestors may once have cooried in for the long haul like hedgehogs or bears. Analysis of early human bones, found fossilised in a cave in Northern Spain, has suggested that our hominin predecessors may have hibernated through the darkest seasons. However, the study goes on to say that the damage and disease evident in the bones indicates that, if we did hibernate, it was poorly tolerated. We would tolerate it even less well now without the coping mechanisms we have drawn from brighter days.

Humans have a long history of gathering light around us when we are furthest from it. The Gaelic words for winter solstice are grian-stad a’ gheamhraidh – literally sun-stop winter. We mark this moment in both words and actions. The traditions surrounding the festivities have changed over the years, depending on human culture: from Maes Howe, the Neolithic chamber in Orkney, built to let a brief burst of sunlight into the tomb on the solstice, to the lighting of candles in houses on Oidhche Choinnle, through to the Christian absorption of Celtic solstice ceremonies, and the arrival of Christmas.

I love the fairy lights that come with Christmas. I would have them up all year if I could get away with it – but it is only really at this time of year that they come into their own. On the longest night of the year, we light up our world.

Originally published by Lochaber Times Issue No 8545 Thursday 7 January

Addendum: This was written at the end of 2020. It is now the end of the first month in a new year. My fairy lights are still up, brightening my days.

Kirsteen Bell

Holly harvest

Storing light