Briefly: Join my Patreon community in time for our Christmas hangout! | My interview on Loudest Girl | Bye bye, blue bird | Retreat with me | Talking wintering & anxiety on The Happier Approach | Order a signed & dedicated copy or Witnering from Harbour Books (UK only, sorry!)
“We can allow the prickle of dissatisfaction rise in us. That’s exactly how we’re supposed to feel. This is the place where change happens, where a skin is shed and a new one grown. This is the cauldron in which the next life is brewed like a potion.”
All of this: beautiful. You have made me think of the solstice in a different way, and for that, among other things, I am grateful. My beloved grandmother likened it to turning off the inside lights (oddly), pulling the bedclothes back, getting in, and not getting out until the days grow noticeably longer. Key word being: noticeably. For me, it begins on the 22nd, and I watch and wait for it to happen. Thank you, as always. x
Returning here to re-read this, which is beautiful, and to say I didn’t know about the sun standing still—the longer pause. You’ve invited me to inhabit this time differently and I’m grateful.
I admit I mourn the passing of the solstice a little. I feel permission to rest and retreat when the days are shorter, less pressure to cope in all the ways I think I should when the light returns. I take comfort in early to midwinter rituals and fairy lights—it all feels like a soft landing place. There’s a stark, empty quality to the late winter months that feels harder to me. I’m reminded of your interview with Philip Carr-Gomm in Wintering about the Druid eightfold Wheel of the Year: maybe part of what I feel is the long gap between festivals in the mainstream cultural calendar after this period.
“We can allow the prickle of dissatisfaction rise in us. That’s exactly how we’re supposed to feel. This is the place where change happens, where a skin is shed and a new one grown. This is the cauldron in which the next life is brewed like a potion.”
What a fabulous email: kind. Inspiring, warm and gently illuminating. I agree, the internet can be a force for good. xh
As a northerner, this is a gorgeous kind of knowing. Grateful.
All of this: beautiful. You have made me think of the solstice in a different way, and for that, among other things, I am grateful. My beloved grandmother likened it to turning off the inside lights (oddly), pulling the bedclothes back, getting in, and not getting out until the days grow noticeably longer. Key word being: noticeably. For me, it begins on the 22nd, and I watch and wait for it to happen. Thank you, as always. x
Returning here to re-read this, which is beautiful, and to say I didn’t know about the sun standing still—the longer pause. You’ve invited me to inhabit this time differently and I’m grateful.
I admit I mourn the passing of the solstice a little. I feel permission to rest and retreat when the days are shorter, less pressure to cope in all the ways I think I should when the light returns. I take comfort in early to midwinter rituals and fairy lights—it all feels like a soft landing place. There’s a stark, empty quality to the late winter months that feels harder to me. I’m reminded of your interview with Philip Carr-Gomm in Wintering about the Druid eightfold Wheel of the Year: maybe part of what I feel is the long gap between festivals in the mainstream cultural calendar after this period.