In 2007, the Winter Solstice occurred on December 22nd at approximately 1:08 am. We’d been married for less than 12 hours when the Sun stood still, when the gradual waning of daylight began its reversal, when there was ritual and death and rebirth.
Of course, there is no actual way to view the moment the Sun momentarily sputters. Only clever minds with precise tools to approximate, calculate. To think we can ever know, ever observe with our eyes, is foolish.
We didn’t plan to be married during Winter Solstice. We didn’t plan much in those days. Maybe we should have? Instead, we stumbled a lot. Fell. Picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off, started again. We took our knocks with laughter and humility, but most importantly we took them together.
We did most things together, still do. We prefer it that way. And still every year, there are knocks. But there is laughter. And there is humility. Then the dusting off and the starting again.
Marriage isn’t easy, an old cliché I know. But it isn’t. And some days living isn’t easy either. Especially with someone like me. Someone with a brain and heart like mine. But I want you to know that when I am lost, grasping for a way back to you, to our son, to our little life, I imagine myself as a floating orb, frantically twirling and whirling in the darkness. And you are The Sun, always visible. With unremitting light and warmth. The path home.
Sure, we may never be able to really observe the moment a ray of light deviates, but I’m so thankful that we continue to try.
Happy Anniversary, Jerimiah.
Melissa Goodnight 
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