The Winter Solstice is often spoken of as a single moment—but it is, in truth, a passage.
The night before the solstice is the still point: the deepest quiet of the year. It is not a time for manifestation or effort. It asks only that we pause. That we let the dark be dark. That we honor what has finished its work within us.
Stillness is not absence.
It is a gathering.
Then comes the solstice itself—the turning.
The longest night gives way, and the light begins its slow, faithful return. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But undeniably.
This is not the season for pressure or reinvention.
It is the season for tending.
One candle.
One intention.
One small warmth held carefully.
At the hearth, we remember:
Light does not conquer the dark.
It emerges from it.
And that is enough.
