In the Stillness, She Speaks

The magic of winter is the magic of the goddess. She whispers you to remember the holiness in your bones, the holiness of the hearth, the medicine of the sacred pause, and the warmth of home. Her crisp winds caress your cheeks, making them rosy and encouraging you to return to arms that just long to hold you— even if they’re your own.

In winter, I find the stillness that I crave during my 4:00 am wakeups. I find it wrapped in blankets, cradled in the loving energy of connections, in the silent meditation of simmering soups and baked goods. I tend to myself in different ways in the stillness. I allow myself a tender moment of being. To not have to be anything, show up for anything, say yes to anything. In the stillness, She speaks to me, hope of a return to light and life.

But in the darkness, we do more than just hope light. We toil. We sink, we observe, and we sow. We take note of all the things that are connected to us that might be draining our vitality. We shed our old skin, like snakes. With branches bare, we evaluate our structure and see what needs to be pruned. We tend to the sacred beings we are. We release through salt-water tears and we conceive transformation in the fire of our souls. Toasting to possibility; to sacred potential. A faith in the unseen, life growing in the darkness of the womb.

In the stillness, She speaks. In the darkness, we listen. This is our quiet time.

Solstice blessings to all. May you find a moment of stillness, a moment of rest, a moment of connection to all that you are and the wisdom you carry. May you incubate all the hopes and dreams— seeds planted in the dark— knowing they will be birthed as the light returns. On this darkest night, may you see the brightness of your own being.

I love you. Blessed be.