Winter Solstice
Happy Winter Solstice, my dears. I’m currently cozied up by the tree and the light of candles, relishing the glow of the light and the warmth of my home. Today marks the shortest day, the longest night. It’s a time for introspection, a time for rest, and also a time to welcome back the sun. The days will begin to get longer again. The light slowly returns. As we celebrate that and look forward to more light, I also want to take a moment to honor the darkness. It’s necessary-for rest and also for growth. In our productivity based society, we are conditioned to believe rest needs to be earned or that rest is for the weak. Let’s put an end to that right now. We do not need permission to rest. Rest is not a reward for hard work. It is our right. It is an honor to rest. It is something to be embraced. I’ve been thinking a lot about my little botanical sanctuary, missing the green and vibrancy of it, but also noticing how the plants, the roots, the seeds are resting under the snow and tucked down in the ground. I know beautiful life will appear in that space in the Spring, but I also know for now, the darkness and rest is what allows all of the life to come forward in due time.
When I think about Solstice, I think about all things cozy and warm. I think about honoring the darkness, about honoring what I have walked through in the past year. I think about rituals that include rest, light, and remembrance. Do you have Solstice rituals, either in your family, your lineage, or among your community? Aside from lighting candles to provide more illumination, I also love to bring the outside in. Evergreen boughs, dried plant stalks, etc. make lovely decorations. I love to make tea with warming, carminative herbs and spices. (I’ve been drinking the Masala Chai from Diaspora Spice lately and it feels just like I’m in India. I highly recommend trying it!) I like to jazz up some apple cider or mull some wine. This is also a time when I grab my journal and allow myself some extra time to write and reflect. And I love to have a simmer pot going on the stove. This past week, I’ve had some of my favorite aromatics on the stovetop, such as juniper, cedar, orange slices, cranberries, star anise, cloves, rosemary, and cardamom. If you haven’t done this before, it’s super simple and I hope you’ll try it! Your house will smell amazing and you’ll feel uplifted by the scent! Just gather your ingredients, place them in a pot with water, and simmer on low on the stovetop or on top of your wood stove, adding more water from time to time, if need be. Just don’t forget to turn it off if you step out for a bit.
In this time of busy-ness, I hope you all are finding rest. I hope holiday gatherings are life giving and not draining. I hope you don’t feel guilty if you need to say no over the next week or so. I hope you have some time to do the things you love with the people you love most. This week I read the most beautiful poem and I wanted to share. I hope the words resonate with you. On this Solstice, please honor yourself and create space for more rest in your life, knowing that just like the garden, abundance comes out of a place of rest and restoration.
Winter arrives as a threshold.
The noise thins.
What has been waiting beneath the surface steps closer.
In the long nights, the outer world grows quiet enough for the inner one to speak.
Dreams thicken.
Memories drift closer to the surface.
The past and the possible sit at the same table, sharing breath.
This is the season of the hearth and the in-between.
Of firelight and listening.
Of stories told to remind us of who we are.
In the old myths, winter was never an ending.
It was the time when the gods went underground.
When seeds were carried into the dark.
When the soul followed, to learn what could not be learned in the open field.
There are things that only reveal themselves when the land is bare.
When the noise falls away.
When the body is allowed to slow into its animal knowing.
Winter teaches a different kind of courage.
Not the courage of striving, but the courage of staying.
Of keeping the fire.
Of trusting what is forming beyond sight.
So if you feel quieter now, more inward,
more porous to memory and dream, know that you are not lost.
You are walking an old road.
One that leads through shadow and back again carrying something precious you could only gather in the dark.
Brigit Anna McNeill
*This is for educational purposes only and has not been evaluated by the FDA. This is not intended to diagnose, treat, prescribe, or cure.