If the Winter Solstice Were a Question
At this still point of the year, listen for what is taking shape beneath the surface.
Dear Wayfinders
If the Winter Solstice Were a Question
it might ask this:
If darkness is the source of all creativity, imagination, and potential, what is waiting to emerge?
Solstice Blessings
Last night, River and I shared a candlelit meal in front of the fire; we each wrote a letter to the returning light and released our wishes into the flames. We spoke very little and didn’t share what we’d written. We offered them to the fire with a simple
‘And so it is; and it is so’.
The word solstice comes from the Latin solstitium, sol (sun) and sistere or -stitium (to stand still): the sun stands still.
At this moment, the sun appears to pause in its long journey across the sky.
Winter Solstice marks the shortest day and the longest night of the year. It is both the darkest point, and also the turning. From here, the light begins its slow return.
The power of the solstice lies in this paradox: descent and emergence, held together.
Before that emergence, there is an invitation to stay with what is offered in the dark to listen, rather than rush ahead.
Welcoming the light
Our ancestors never took the returning of the light for granted. They encouraged it. They sang it back. They moved their bodies.
They wove time together: memory, present moment, future becoming.
This morning we trudged, a little wearily (tired and full of a cold) through Hembury Woods and witnessed the sun rise from Hembury Hill Fort.
As we looked out on the floating lakes of mist and the clouds forming and reforming, there was a gentle hint of the light and warmth from the sun to come.
I’m so glad we made it!
There is a story for every season
One of the teachings that has most shaped my relationship with seasonal work comes from Sharon Blackie, through her course Sisters of Rock and Root. At each turning of the year, she offers a story to work with that carries the medicine of that season.
The invitation is to sit with a story long enough that its themes and images begin to speak directly into our own lives.
At Solstice, the story offered is Beira, Queen of Winter, the ancient figure who rules the dark half of the year. Beira is not a gentle archetype. She is the bone woman, the storm bringer, the keeper of what endures. Her presence reminds us that winter is not merely a pause, but a force: one that strips away illusion, tests what is real, and shapes the land, and us, through pressure and time.
Alongside story, there is always place.
This work asks us to explore where we are, geographically, bodily, seasonally, and who we are in that place. It is a practice of grounding, of mapping ourselves into the living world rather than hovering above it. Over time, this deepens into what Sharon Blackie calls the Eco-Heroine’s Journey: not a quest for transcendence or conquest, but a return to relationship and reciprocity.
That framework draws on her book If Women Rose Rooted, which explores these themes in far greater depth, particularly the idea that the journeys we are most in need of now are not away from the world, but back into it.
This is why Winter Solstice, for me, is not only about the return of the light.
It is about entering the dark with respect.
About learning what the season, and the land, are asking of us.
About recognising that the dark is not empty, but alive with medicine and meaning.
And it is why, when we gather at Solstice, we do not rush toward illumination.
We linger.
We listen.
We allow the Queen of Winter to speak.
A Guided Winter Solstice Journey
One of the most powerful places to meet the dark is through the image of the cave.
In Celtic and land-based traditions, caves appear as places of initiation and transformation. They are womb-like spaces: places of retreat, gestation, and deep listening. Not places of punishment or exile, but of mystery, where the outer world recedes and we are brought into contact with what is essential and enduring.
Caves ask us to slow down. To shed what cannot travel further. To meet what remains when the light is absent.
What follows is a guided Solstice journey into the imaginal realm; please remember that imaginal does not always mean visual. Some people see images, others sense, feel, or simply know.
Before you begin, I invite you to create a space that feels safe and supportive, one where you’re unlikely to be disturbed.
You might like to gather a few simple things:
a journal and pen,
a candle,
some water.
Make yourself as comfortable as you can.
As you read, or listen to the audio of me guiding you, you’ll be invited into a state of gentle relaxation. This is not an altered state of consciousness, but a quieting of attention. A way of listening more closely.
This journey offers guidance, clues, and prompts. You may wish to close your eyes and follow it through in one sitting. Or you may prefer to read slowly, pausing to journal when you reach the questions.
There is no right way to do this.
What matters most is that you give yourself enough space and time for the journey to unfold in the way it needs to.
A gentle note on care
Please take responsibility for your own wellbeing as you move through this journey.
If you are currently experiencing mental health difficulties that make working with imagination, visualisation, or inner imagery challenging, it may be best not to take part in this practice, or to do so with appropriate professional support.
This journey is intended to be undertaken while you are fully present and sober. Please do not engage with it under the influence of mind-altering substances, including drugs or alcohol.
Trust yourself. You are always free to pause, stop, or return to this practice at another time if it doesn’t feel supportive.
When you’re ready, begin.
You’re welcome to read the journey slowly to yourself, or to listen to the accompanying audio of me guiding you through it, or record it in your own voice to listen to.
Journey Into the Cave
Begin by bringing your attention to your breath.
There’s nothing to change or control, simply notice the rhythm of your breathing, in and out.
If it feels right, take a slightly deeper breath in,
and a longer breath out.
Do that once or twice more.
Allow your body to soften.
If it feels comfortable, close your eyes.
If not, soften your gaze.
Feel your weight being held: by the chair, the floor, the earth beneath you.
Bring your awareness down through your body,
from the crown of your head,
through your shoulders and chest,
down into your belly, your hips, your legs, your feet.
Let yourself arrive.
Now, gently ground your attention.
Ground into the earth - the land that holds you, wherever you are.
Ground into your ancestors - those whose lives made yours possible.
Ground into your body - exactly as it is in this moment.
And ground into gratitude - noticing what is already here.
You don’t need to hold all of this at once.
Simply let your attention rest where it wants to.
As you continue to breathe, allow yourself to relax a little more.
Nothing is required of you.
There is nowhere else you need to be.
From here, we begin the journey.
We begin by arriving at the door of a winter hut - your inner winter retreat.
This is a place of shelter and rest. You are safe here.
Take notice of the door. Knock three times and the door opens. You cross the threshold and step inside.
Look around you.
What do you notice here?
What do you see, sense, or feel?
Perhaps there are representatives of the elements: earth, air, fire, water.
Perhaps there are objects, textures, or presences that bring you comfort.
Take a moment to let this place form, in whatever way it does for you.
Now you notice something.
There is symbol or an image or an object that represents this past year for you, what is it?
There’s no need to analyse.
Simply notice what arises. Trust you will remember it.
Now, you become aware that you are not alone.
An old woman appears.
She is here to hold you and to guide you.
She does not hurry.
She does not soothe or placate you.
She allows space for your grief and your challenges.
She helps you receive the gifts of the dark.
She offers you courage, insight, and guidance — as much or as little as you need.
When you’re ready, she invites you to follow her.
Together, you walk to a well.
You sit down beside it.
You pause.
You sink down.
And from here, you find yourself entering a cave.
This is a place of depth and stillness.
A place of mystery.
Inside the cave, you notice three stones.
You take the first stone and ask:
What has been stripped away from me this year?
Beliefs.
Illusions.
Old myths about who I thought I was.
When you’re ready, you take the second stone and ask:
What am I still holding on to that needs to be released?
The last leaves clinging to the tree.
And then you take the third stone and ask:
When I remove the layers of all my stories about who I am; what is left?
Take your time here.
There is no rush.
When it feels complete, you notice an opening.
You make your way out and back up to the surface.
You return to your winter hut.
Once again, you look around this space.
And now you ask one final question:
If there was a symbol or an image or an object that might represent the coming year, what would it be?
Let whatever comes be enough.
Slowly, gently, begin to return.
Notice the feeling of your body.
Notice your breath.
When you’re ready, open your eyes.
Take some time to write down what you received: words, images, sensations, or fragments.
Book Suggestions
If you’re drawn to working with the seasons in your own circles or personal practice, the Wheel of the Year can offer a meaningful and grounding structure. I love the following books which each bring a perspective to the traditions, stories, rituals and meaning of these ancient festivals:
These books feel congruent with my cultural heritage and ancestral lineage and I have found them to be beautifully written and helpful. As always, learn from these powerful teachers and storytellers and exercise your discernment in your practice and the sacred tools you use.
If you’d like to join me in Circle, I’ll be gathering again in January for Tend - a gentle, circle space to arrive, reflect, and listen together. I’m also quietly tending the seeds of The Commons, a longer-form offering rooted in place, relationship, and collective care. If either feels like something you’d like to know more about, you’re very welcome to reach out.
And for now, I’ll return to our question:
If darkness is the source of all creativity, imagination, and potential, what is waiting to emerge?
Solstice blessings
🖤💛
Beautiful. Happy solstice sister. The darkness in me sees the darkness in you. 🖤