The sun, which just a few days ago seemed to be so high
and strong in the sky, now sails on its journey at a much lower and painful curve
in the sky. Each day it rises a bit later,
arcs a bit lower, and sets a bit sooner.
The all-powerful Sun God now suffers His immortal wound. Is He leaving me again? His glances are more fleeting, His touch not
as warm . . . And He is preoccupied, marching
back and forth like a soldier with thoughts only for the coming battle. The crows fly higher in the sky now,
mocking. It is just a matter of time. He knows this.
Now it seems that everyone looks the other way, as Shakespeare
so eloquently pointed out. No one wants
to admit the end. Endless distractions
are employed yet again, and I find myself worn out by the effort others make to
avoid reality. It seems they will go to
any length to pretend that the banquet is eternal and that the end can be
forestalled forever.
But I will stand alone as I have always done. I will witness His demise yet again. I will stare it boldly in the face when the
time comes. I am not afraid of the soft,
cold darkness. Being far too fair of
skin with light green eyes, I was never made for the Sun and His powerful
energy anyway. My skin always burned; my
eyes always hurt. But I did love Him in
secret.
When I was about 12 or 13 years old, I had misbehaved yet
again. This was not remotely out of
character for me, since I was well known in the family as the rowdiest and
rudest among all of my siblings. Also, I
had a terribly smart mouth, and I am afraid that has not changed very much over
the years. In any event, my punishment
this time around was to choose one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, memorize it by
heart, and recite it to my father within one hour.
To be sure, my father used his belt on me a lot,
too. He would snap it in the air, and
you never saw four children run faster in four opposite directions. For those who are shocked by this, remember
that it was a different time then and there were different rules. Somehow we all made it through just fine,
though. But this time around there was
surprisingly no belt. Instead, I had to
memorize a sonnet, and I fulfilled my part of the deal within the hour allotted
me.
Sonnet #7 is Shakespeare’s poem about the sun. It is not only about the sun in the sky,
though, but about the rising, soaring, falling, and dying in our own lives, and
ultimately how we live on only in and through our offspring. Man too rises, soars, falls, and dies. Without his children, he perishes. Without their father, they cannot be. Each sunrise and sunset depends on the former
and places its hope in the latter.
Now the sun is low in the sky. The days will grow ever shorter and darker,
and the ice will begin to advance again.
The Lord of Winter watches greedily from the field. He knows His enemy is fatally wounded and
that I am coming to Him yet again for shelter in His icy grasp. I do not fear. Someday in the future, I will owe no more to
this Archetypical realm in which I find myself and will be just a woman
again. But today is not that day. Soon the crows will laugh in the sky, and the
mournful dirge will be sung out yet again: “The
King is dead. Long live the King.”
