VIII - Winter Solstice
Manitoba from the plane the day after my father dies.
“Soon the days will be getting longer,” my father used to say around this time of year. After a dreary December, and my father’s death at the end of November, I need the comfort of his words. I got a sense growing up he needed some words of encouragement too to help him through the dead of winter. He grew up on a farm in Manitoba. The cruel prairie winter without proper clothing, the demand of the farm animals, not to mention a frustrated father, a violent Mennonite man, weighed on his spirit throughout his life.
The darkness of mid-winter and the demands of the festive season numb the mind and I flip into auto mode. I bake as most Mennonite mothers do - Christmas cake, I got a great recipe from my aunt just before my father died, Butter Hoernchen, which my daughter requested and Graham Cracker Surprise -a cheat for those who are not “real bakers”. The melted butter, brown sugar, sliced almonds and chocolate chips atop baked graham crackers soothe my soul or at least my cravings.
I used to like baking when my three kids were small. While they watched Christmas movies, like Home-Alone, Dennis the Menace and the Grinch - no family Hallmark movies for this family - I was busy in the kitchen.
Now the baking is more of a compulsion. I figure the “Merry Season” of celebrating the birth of Jesus is more like propaganda for consumerism and Christianity. Bah Humbug!
After I’ve had a couple coffees and my ADHD medication kicks in I do try to tap into self-compassion “Hey, it makes sense you are a little down in the dumps, after-all the darkness is upon us.” I tell myself. It doesn’t always work.
***
In 2004 I traveled with my husband at the time and our three children to Mexico. The trip lasted four months and we were gone over Christmas.
One of the most profound parts of the entire trip came in the form of a small tour. We were in San Cristal Bal de las Casas, in the southern part of Mexico. In the Lonely Planet, I had read about a tour guided by a woman named Mercedes. “She is a tall woman with a multi-coloured umbrella standing by the fountain.”
Just as described, we found Mercedes twirling her umbrella and waiting for tourists. Once enough people had arrived to fill a van, we set off. We visited a local home where a woman sat on the floor making corn tortillas, her husband sat in an unlit corner. We thanked the woman profusely, Mercedes left some coins, and so did we, but it still felt like we poverty tourists.
We drove the countryside and ended up at a large Catholic Church. I was unprepared for what came next as we entered the solid wooden doors of the cathedral. All the wooden benches had been removed and where the centre isle should have been were tables piled high with an array of flowers, candles and small keep sakes. The sanctuary was alive with activity. We watched as an older man, who held a floundering chicken under his left arm, twisted the chicken’s neck with his right hand. Instantly the bird was still.
Mercedes stole up behind us and quietly explained how the congregates come to the church for physical and spiritual healing. The energy of the disease, psychological or physical, is given to the chicken who is then sacrificed. I couldn’t help but think about the mythology I was raised on, the biblical sacrificial lamb, and the ultimate, Jesus who died for our sins. Mercedes continued, “One priest who ran the church back in the day grew furious with the congregation. 'You people" do not listen. You don’t want the church here and we will close the doors for good on this church.’ But” Mercedes continued, the people said, ‘No, no, no please stay and baptize our children.’ So every year a priest comes to baptize the babies who were born the previous year.”
We got back into the van and drove up into the hills. Eventually the van parked near the top of a hill. We all bustled out and headed to the top, which overlooked the city. A simple clay chalice stood in the middle of a clearing. “There are sacred places all over Mexico where the indigenous groups worshipped.” She continued to explain how high points were sites of spiritual significance and were where people came to practice their particular rituals. The churches made sure many of these places were conquered by building directly overtop of these sacred locations hoping to ensure worship to their God. “This particular place,” she said while lighting some pieces of Palo Santo in the cup, “was kept a secret from them.”
This experience was the start of my understanding of how the church was used to colonize groups around the world. I am so thankful to have met the gracious Mercedes who with kindness and compassion taught us so much.
Unlike indigenous groups the Mennonites in southern Manitoba were given land in order to settle and help with the colonial project.
I do, however, relate to the Indigenous experience on some level. I too feel like I was manipulated by the church - sometimes I go so far as calling it spiritual rape. As a child I did not have a sense of my own worth. I was born into sin and remained a sinner. Even though I prayed continuously for redemption, it never appeared.
So today, I prefer to reflect on the natural cycles of the seasons, on the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year, and the pagan traditions of welcoming back the light which promises better times ahead.
This entry is dedicated to my father, 1932-2022.
