Wrap Your Arms Around the Dark

Honoring this Solstice Eve, and a new to Substack poem

Art by William Morris

Happy Almost Solstice, Readers!

Tonite is the Solstice Eve, and it feels fitting that we had our first proper snow in Boston today. I walked a few miles around the neighborhood with a dear friend and her sweet pup, and by the time I got back home, my hair was caked with icy crystals and my boots, the left one having recently sprung a leak in the sole, demanded to be rested on the radiator to warm up. I was both grateful to have savored the fresh air in wonderful company and to curl up on the couch once I got home, my cat on my chest, a small, soft reminder that as we prepare to meet the dark, to wrap our arms around it, it’s enough to simply breathe in and out, over and over and over again.

I’ve written about my growing love of marking the Winter Solstice before, and this year, my love for this thin time of year continues to mature and grow. After a full fall, I’ve wrapped my grading for the semester just this morning, and I’m finally feeling like I can breathe a bit deeper and slow the pace a little more for the rest of December.

I’m still working a few days at my beloved Orchard House this month, and I still have some simple Christmas preparations to do, but this year, I’m putting less pressure on myself to block an entire expanse of days for rest and celebrating. Let’s be honest, for most of us, our work schedules don’t allow for stopping full stop this month. I’m thankful for the modest blocks of days I do have off from work this month, and I’m going to sink into these quiet pockets of time, savoring gratitude for what I do get instead of getting greedy for more.

In elementary school, they teach you that the Winter Solstice is the shortest day of the year. What I only recently learned is that the word Solstice is derived from the Latin word, solstitium, which translates to “sun standing still.”

Did your shoulders drop a little, too, after reading that phrase? Imagining the big, bright, beautiful life giving sun taking a bit of time to pause before marching into the New Year?

I’ve scribbled out a bit of a blessing of sorts for myself this Solstice Eve, and I share it here with you, in case you are looking for a simple way to mark the day (and night).

Tomorrow the sun will stand still. The whole world waits, and yet, she lets it. Rest is a worthy reason to wait. Life is worth lingering for.

The sun stands still. How steadying is this notion? That even the Sun, with all her strength, requires a bit of rest before the rush of a new year?

If her rest is holy, why not mine? Ours?

Before the sun gears up for longer days, she literally pauses. She stays.

No need to rush back to daylight, and while she does begin to make her way back (eventually) to the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year, she won’t be pushed along. A few seconds here, a minute there.

Gently, gently. Speed is not necessary for stepping forward, one foot at a time.

What are you pressing pause on in this moment?

(Remember: resting is not resigning.)

How can you set aside some snippets of silence this Solstice? It’s not about setting aside long stretches of stopping; a handful of minutes, experienced with deep intention will do, too.

(Stillness and silence come in many different forms.)

Where do you feel like you are standing still in your life?

Where are the places that this sensation of stillness still feels nourishing and grounding and steadying?

Where are the places where the stillness feels like stuckness to you?

Like the sun herself, there is no need to rush realizations, Friends. Noticing and naming is enough.

May you find ways to make a bit more peace with the darkness. May you open your arms to greet the velvet night like an old friend.

May you, in the meantime, light the night with your own glow, and in doing so, kindle someone else’s heart, whether it be a human’s or a hummingbird’s.

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Signing off this Solstice Eve with a poem, below, that I wrote last year about what it feels like to greet the dark. My wish for you is that you do so in any way that feels right for you, in this moment, this night, whether it be singing, surrendering, or solitude.

I’m taking next week off of Substack, but will be back before New Year’s to share some thoughts on turning the calendar on a brand new, never before lived year. Until then, take good care of your sweet selves.