Important Notes:
I’m planning a spring hiatus!
Following that until July, I’ll be taking *online appointments only* for tarot readings and spiritual somatic guidance. You will need to contact me to book personally since online booking will no longer be an option during that time.
This subscription list is a combo of friends, readers, and previous clients. I’ll be writing “blog-style” during my hiatus — personal accounts of daily life and travel. Please unsubscribe if these musings do not interest you! I won’t take it personally.
Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year.
It happened nearly a month ago now. Each day is a couple minutes longer, and psychologically it’s somehow pleasing to know we’re on the upswing.
From the end of October, we pulled our scarves tighter around our necks to stave off the growing chill. We moaned in lament as the sun sank deeper into gloom, earlier each day. Some folks barely saw light at all on work days, staying inside from morning until late afternoon. Children exited school just in time for sunset, their weary parents driving them around to dance and piano lessons through dim streets slick with cold slush and rain. Then, starting December, rushing around in the dark to endless concerts and Christmas parties.
Good thing Winter Solstice is such a short day. Good riddance, everyone thinks, as they trudge through the chill night (hopefully towards a cozy home scene).
The day marks a turning point from darkness to light, like a little candle glowing in an underground tomb. To celebrate this, we deck our homes with lights and pursue every possible manner of feasting with our loved ones.
Winter Solstice is a time of year to really love the dark.
Why don’t we ever rejoice in that? It’s the origin, the place from which everything is birthed. It’s the place where seeds hide until they’re ready to sprout. Also, it’s where we fall into delicious sleep and dream deeply.
In Christianity, the season of Advent makes people wait an entire four-week period in hushed anticipation for the birth of the light (or, the child, in this case). During this time — in the Anglican tradition, anyway — churches don’t allow the singing of Christmas carols. They wait until the birth of Jesus happens before going crazy with merrymaking and harking heralds and all that.
More and more, in our society, we don’t stop for a single minute to just pipe down and enjoy a bit of silence. As soon as summer ends, we begin planning our winter vacations to sunny climates. Following Halloween, the Christmas decorations pop out on the shelves like jack-in-the-boxes, distracting us from the looming absence of light. Heaven forbid we should stay inside and cuddle up in front of the fire, instead of going out and getting “lit”.
Isn’t it kind of insane how obsessed we are with light?
Obsessed with constant revelation, constant revelry . . . Doesn’t it exhaust you, just a little bit, to think about constantly being seen, exposed, illuminated and active? It makes my head spin; I can feel my cortisol levels spiking even writing about it.
Every Summer Solstice, we praise and worship the light. We hug the sun as it finally sinks beyond the horizon on the longest day, lamenting how each day will become shorter and shorter until Christmas.
Then, on Winter Solstice, we praise and worship the light again. After Christmas, we swing into January full of powerful resolutions and promises of new activity. In doing so, we completely miss the precious moment of dormancy available to us. Our bodies and minds yearn for rest, but it’s like we’re afraid to settle down into the darkness. We have the opportunity to remain inactive, like a little seed under the cold earth, until late February or March, but we insist on rushing about as if it’s summertime. We go away on vacations to sunny climates in our bid to ignore the season of hibernation.
Why are we so afraid of the dark?
I have an inkling.
This Christmas, I had an opportunity to embrace the darkness completely. It was one of those years when there just wasn’t a lot going on in my life, so I ended up being alone a lot. I was alone for most of Christmas day, and for many days before and after. Of course, I could’ve distracted myself with offers from friends and acquaintances to go out. But I decided to sit with it.
And did I ever cry it out. I cried so much that my friends and I nicknamed my bed “The Bed of Tears” (lol). I cried about every loss I’ve ever had, every mistake I’ve ever made, every lie I’ve ever told, every betrayal I’ve experienced or perpetrated. (There will be a forthcoming post about this cleansing process, you’ll get all the gory details then. Don’t worry, I’m fine!)
So yeah, it’s understandable that we fear the darkness, if it brings about these kinds of deep lonely reckonings.
But I’ll tell you what — I came out of those couple weeks with a new kind of wisdom. All that feeling was, indeed, healing. I cleaned out my psychological closets and made some big fat spiritual donations, alright. My eyes and heart are clear now, in ways they weren’t before.
I’m curious how you feel about winter and darkness.
Do you feel averse to sitting still and tending the inner fire? Or do you cozy up and enjoy the quietness? How do you protect your right to silence and peace?
How does your body speak to you about darkness? Does it make you nervous? What would happen if you sat with those fears and let them have a moment of your time? What would they say to you?
As the Dalai Lama says: “The enemy is a very good teacher.”
Over time, our society has made winter into an enemy. And I think we’ve lost some of the best lessons.
Appreciate you and your work so very much
Wonderful insights !