Yule
The sun returns, but first—the dark. We wait with candles and patience.
Here, evergreen and hearthfire; where you are, what keeps its green when all else sleeps?
The longest night asks nothing of you but presence. No productivity, no transformation, no breakthrough. Just the willingness to sit in the dark and trust that light returns.
This is the hinge. The sun has been dying since midsummer; tonight it reaches its nadir and begins, imperceptibly, to climb again. You will not feel the difference for weeks. The knowing comes before the feeling.
Practice
On the solstice eve, extinguish every light in your home. Sit in the darkness for as long as you can bear—five minutes, twenty, an hour. Notice what arises. Fear, peace, restlessness, stillness.
When you’re ready, light one candle. Just one. Let it be enough.
If you have a hearth, keep something burning through the night. If you don’t, a candle in a window serves. The point is not the fire itself but the tending.
Reflection
What has been dying in you since summer? What do you trust to return, even without evidence?
Notes
The evergreens remind us: not everything surrenders to winter. Holly, ivy, pine, yew—they hold their color through the dark months. Bring them inside. Let them teach you something about endurance.