Thus, I have lived the vast majority of my 60 years on the coast of the Gulf of Mexico.  My memories of Christmas do not involve snowmen or cold weather but rather riding my bicycle up and down the street, or taking my newest book and climbing into my favorite tree to read. 

As a child, living in this climate always made me feel out of sync with the rest of the country.  Christmas cards and holiday specials on television always featured snow-filled landscapes and it was challenging to embrace the concept of a Christmas that would never be white.  However, other than the few short but glorious years I lived in the north, warm winter holidays were all I knew and I did my best, as an adult, to develop customs appropriate to the place where we lived.

When I became a Pagan, this became even more challenging.  I explored and studied the spiritual implications of the Wheel of the Year but could find no way to make them mesh with the reality of the whole in which I lived.  In Florida, harvest occurs in the winter and early spring, and one rarely plants anything in the summer lest it die in the fierce heat. 

In 2005, my husband of 30+ years passed away and I began to contemplate what the rest of my life might look like.  It had been a long time since I had really enjoyed the heat and humidity of Gulf coast summers and I determined to explore the possibility of moving north-to some place where the Wheel of the Year actually made sense. 

In the summer of 2007, I moved to Maine and bought a house.  Moving from the Deep South to the far North has been a learning curve of monumental proportions.  Every day I discover something new about living here, as opposed to living there.  Here are my reflections on this experience, as it relates to my growth as a practicing Pagan.

Samhain

My first visit to Maine was made in late October-well past the peak of autumn colors.  At first I was disappointed.  I clearly remembered autumn from my years in New York and was looking forward to the stunning brilliance of reds and yellows.  But after a few days, I realized something new.  What came into play after the reds and golds faded were the myriad shades of brown and orange.  I had never fully appreciated just how many different ways brown can be expressed.  I gaze at a landscape in which I count six different browns, none of which I can name but all of which are different.  I am equally stunned by the oranges.  In Florida, there is one shade of orange, and it is now readily available at most supermarkets.  But here, it is like the Goddess is a painter limited to a two-toned pallet and determined to draw forth every nuance of each color She has allowed herself.  In mid-November, my garden still features several shades of brown and orange and is as beautiful as it is in the peak of spring. 

The days after Samhain seem to grow shorter at an exponential pace.  The closing in of darkness is so noticeable that I begin to understand the fears our ancestors must have had about the return of the sun.  What would happen if the sun did not come back?  If the days just kept growing shorter and shorter until, finally, we lived in total darkness?  How would we survive?  How would we grow any food or accomplish any work?  No wonder the wise women and men of our ancestors watched the movements of the stars so closely.  Each year it was important to confirm that the observed patterns of the earlier years would in fact hold true this year.  And when that knowledge is confirmed - how joyous our celebrations acknowledging the sun's return!  Weeks of cold and snowy weather still lie ahead of us-but the days are getting longer-bit by tiny bit and there is much needed comfort in that sure knowledge.

Not only do the days grow visibly shorter, the sun is moving farther away and keeping to the low parts of the sky.  In summer, the sun is so high in the sky that my entire yard is bathed in sunlight every day.  But now, the north side of the yard receives little, if any, direct sun.  The sun rises in the southeast and sets in the southwest and stays low in the sky in the interim.  Winter sunrise floods my sunroom, located on the southern side of the house.  In the winter months, every available bit of sun light collects in this room and helps me to feel His comforting presence.  And snow accumulates untouched on the north side of the house-drifts getting deeper with each snowfall and melting at long last after the rest of the yard is clear.     

Of course, the days do grow shorter in the South, and the position of the sun does change with each season, but the changes are not as drastic-not as significant as symbols of the possibility of survival, or not.  Winter months in the deep South are not times of rest and contemplation.  Indeed, in both Florida and New Orleans, winter is prime tourist season and extremely busy and energetic.  Living in Maine has helped me understand how important it is to take some time each year to stay home and reflect on what has gone before and what is coming next-to contemplate the changes one has made in one's life and the changes one might like to make-to appreciate and value the energy that has gone into creating the life you live.  Living in the South for so long, it seemed as though life was always filled with busyness without any underlying focus or purpose to that busyness.  When the weather is almost always warm, one is not encouraged to reflection and contemplation-one is encouraged to activity and continual growth.  As someone who remembers what Florida was like 50+ years ago, I can honestly say that continual growth without reflection is not a positive thing.  Periods of dormancy have value and in Maine it is easier to take that time for reflection, because it is supported by the outside world and the Wheel of the Year.

As if in compensation for the shorter days, the night sky takes on a depth few Southerners have ever experienced.  In the South, there is always moisture in the air and this blocks our ability to really see the stars.  But winter skies in Maine are a revelation-a myriad of stars etched in the cold dark dry sky by the hand of a master craftsperson.  They parade across the sky each night like actors in a well-rehearsed play-never missing a cue or line.  I am fortunate that Taliesin has made a life-long study of the night skies and can identify almost every star I can see and many that I can barely make out.  Are there really more stars in the winter sky?  Or is it just that we can see more because the sky is so clear.  I've sailed the Gulf of Mexico, and been miles from light pollution in the middle of the night, and still never seen the Milky Way.  But it is a regular feature of winter skies here.  Some nights it feels as though I could reach out and touch the stars-and perhaps one night I will.  I am learning the stars specific to each season and am slowly coming to view them as old friends who come to visit on a yearly basis.