Smallquietstill, this year has passed for me. Smallquietstill, my passage through the holiday. Blessings, then, to you, this day of new years. Blessings, then, to you, in remembrance of loved ones gone. Like a river, we are thrust forward today (as we are every day) knowing the winding bends that came before, and a vague notion of our destination.
Today, I honor my beloved dead, those whose threads have been cut short, those whose lives have touched my own. We are bound to winter by the eating of our bread: bread, from the Greek, the food of mortals, food that dies with us. I take an apple, cut it star-wise– apples are the food of the dead. I take a loaf of bread to add some honey– this life is brief but sweet. I take a pomegranate– Persephone, you brought us winter, read slant-wise. Bound to flesh and blood and bone, we are dying every day, the contract in four small, red seeds like rubies. I honor the dead. And I taste of life.
May my lips never touch ambrosia. May my immortality be on the lips and tongues of friends. May I drink deeply of all this life has to offer. May I do honor to the memory of dear ones since passed. May this life, for all its shortness, be a thing of beauty: like four small seeds, bright as rubies.