Winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, is next Tuesday. It is midwinter, not the beginning. We'll be halfway through on our way to spring, though the heaviest storms and, misleadingly, darkest days are ahead. The pre-Christian Irish Celtic people knew it as the end of the Dark Season and beginning of the Light. The sun will be returning, days will lengthen until spring comes Feb. 1.

At our Oregon latitude, which is close to that of Ireland, and with the moderating effect of nearby oceans, these dates make sense if one watches what nature is doing. The leaves of autumn are half decomposed, returning to Earth the minerals they accepted from the roots and sap in the past Light Season. Perfect recycling.

Reeds and grasses are softly brittle from moisture, all green long gone. If there is snow, they will be crushed by its weight, but still their substance will provide gaps and pockets of air, cushioning the ground. Their insulation must be good for earthworms and moles, aerators and digesters of wastes.

This is a hungry time for birds, deer and other creatures — both seeds and greenery are in short supply — yet they manage. The old, weak and clumsy fail and, by so doing, contribute to the strongest of their tribe. This process of natural selection assures that the most fit will survive to perpetuate the species. This may seem cruel, using sentimental human standards, but it is how vitality is maintained.

Intimacy with nature was central to the spiritual understanding of those long-ago Celts. They did not see themselves as "managers" or "appreciators" of the incredibly complex web of animal, vegetable, celestial and invisible life. They saw themselves as part of nature, not spectators. They drew conclusions about their own cycles of life through consideration of seasons.

Every living part of creation follows the same, unchanging pattern. Each begins small, vulnerable and rich with potential. Each gathers strength and substance, becoming larger and more competent. Then comes maturity, reproduction and full power. Then comes decline, a lessening of capacity to sustain life and, mercifully, death. These phases are parallel to spring, summer, autumn and winter.

Winter is the season of reflection, quiet, adding up, teaching what has been observed to those yet unfamiliar with the cycle. An ice storm is a modern human's inconvenience — slick roads, no electricity or phone, disruption of ordinary routines. Nearly all survive, though weakened old bodies may succumb to illnesses associated with extra stress. My father used to say, "Pneumonia is the old man's friend." By this he meant it gave release from suffering.

For a maple tree, an ice storm is a huge challenge, especially if accompanied by fierce winds. A maple does not take the predictable upright form of a fir or cedar, with limbs at measured distances so every needle has a fair chance at life-giving light. A maple lacks the flex of willow, cherry or alder, though these shallow-rooted trees may topple if the soil they stand in is sodden and their limbs are top-heavy with ice.

A maple is a different thing. It puts down deep roots and is prepared to hang on. Each maple is unique in form, depending on location, competing vegetation and terrain. Primary limbs support a lacework of branches. Twigs abound. All reach outward, slightly upward, but not so far from horizontal. The weight of limbs is immense, defying gravity. The trunk grows thicker, stouter throughout its lifetime. A maple is hard wood, only flexible in the hands of a skilled craftsperson.

Maple's form is beautiful, a piece of meditative art, but there is vulnerability not immediately obvious. The crotch of the trunk from which the primary limbs spring may develop cracks. These admit water and organisms, and later may become bird or animal shelters. My partner brought home a huge, glorious piece of ancient maple trunk, alive with phosphorescence. It literally glowed in the dark, as magical as any fantasy.

Comes the ice storm and the whole tree is tested. Added weight on extended, brittle branches has a beautiful, ruthless glaze. Add wind and the test is extreme. Branches break with a sharp, splintering sound that makes the homesteader glad that branch wasn't over the cabin.

When a maple has been devastated by time and storm, it has a miracle in store for the observant watcher. Multitudes of scions — suckers — sprout in the spring, each a potential new trunk. They compete for light and space. In time, the husk of the old tree will be armature and nourishment for what to the naïve eye would seem a strong, young maple. But it grows from the root of its parent. Like us.

Human life parallels these natural processes of birth, growth, decline, death. We, too, may leave in our passage vitality for new growth, deep-seated knowing of the ways of survival. Take guilt-free time to reflect, choose your path and treasure quiet. Have a glorious winter solstice and any other holiday you are observing.

Peg Elliott Mayo, LCSW, is a writer, artist and psychotherapist who lives in the Coast Range and maintains an office in Corvallis. Due to a recent automobile accident, she is not seeing clients until after the first of the year. However, messages are welcome at 753-2744, pegmayo@rivervoices.com or uncommonideas@rivervoices.com. She'll respond as she can.