Wintering inwardly — a closing letter for 2023.

trusting in the continuum of light and dark, inward and outward, stillness and growth.

I’m Lyndsay, mother, creative and storyteller with a background in interiors PR. Story & Thread. is a weekly letter exploring the intersection of creativity, mothering and the living world, with a home and a garden at the heart...

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“We talk so much of light, please

let me speak on behalf

of the good dark. Let us

talk more of how dark

the beginning of the day is”.

—

Maggie Smith

, How Dark the Beginning.

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Hello everyone

This is my closing letter of the year as we creep towards the shortest day and deepest night here at Yule, the winter solstice in the Northern Hemisphere.

Slowly, slowly there is a gradual shift in energy from this point — but as ever, the earth shows us, there is no need to rush. The word solstice combines the Latin words sol for ‘sun’ and sistere for ‘to stand still’. It is the point where the sun reaches its lowest point in the sky and appears to stay still in the sky over a few days.

As I have felt my world drawing increasingly inward these past days, I am moving towards a sense of the sun’s stillness too (well as much as is possible when running around after two excitable little ones!). I am allowing myself a pause in these liminal days where time shapeshifts, taking on a different, fuller form — a rare opportunity to pause in slower moments at the close of one calendar year, and the dawning of the next.

Until then, the words will be held here inside, in the dark for a while, before they begin to make shapes on the pages of a new chapter…

Ivy shadows making shapes on the wall.

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The unfolding of the season.

I wrote about being drawn indoors in my letter a couple of weeks ago about making space for gentle alchemy in winter, and I am finding the wintry inner spiral continues to deepen as the light dwindles and we reach the most fleeting day of the year at the winter solstice.

Despite the stillness at the solstice, the crescendo of Christmas and the threshold of a new year taking the form of momentary events, I am feeling into the continuum of it all. I was surprised to see green shoots already in the garden amongst the carpet of fallen leaves, the barren branches and the drooping, decaying plants — it reminded me that there is closeness, continuity and wholeness in everything — in the cycles of new and old, life and death, light and dark, inward and outward, and that it is rarely one thing or the other.

Rather than being a singular moment in time, the solstice stretches across a few days, as before and after each solstice the sun appears to stand still¹. It is as though momentum is required to allow the sun to somersault towards the lengthening light again. The gradual stretching of light is largely unseen day by day, but by the end of January the growing solar strength is palpable.

This year, I am choosing to look at Christmas like this, rather than a build up to one day and the pressure to conjure a ‘Christmassy feeling’, I have been steadily sensing into this month and into winter, noticing the subtle inner and outer shifts — absorbing the feel of it, bringing it home, holding it with both hands and framing fragments when I can.

Making wish biscuits with little hands.

Good dark mornings.

One very unexpected winter joy I am finding is in the inky, dark mornings. My littlest with his purest of pure circadian rhythms is often sleeping close to 7am, rather than 5am in the distilled light of summer mornings. This longer rest is bringing me a sort of embodied energy most days which feels much needed in these winter days.

There is enchantment in waking up, drawing the curtains to disclose more darkness beyond, whilst neighbouring windows reveal twinkly lights and tiny stories of the lives lived there. My children are never far away and seem to relish the togetherness in darkness, as well as the task of turning on lamps to give a warm glow. The morning mayhem now unfolding to a backdrop of twinkly lights and a gradually shifting watercolour sky.

A gradual wash of light reaches the bedroom.

Bringing Christmas in.

We have been lucky to enjoy some local Christmas events which hold their own fantastical magic, but it now feels like it is time to draw back inwards and bring Christmas home.

At the weekend, I planted the last of the narcissus bulbs (and a raft I had saved and stored in the basement from last year — I have no idea of what is what or if they will flower again but I felt it was worth a try!). I peeled away layers of ivy from the back fence to bring into the house and strung up oranges on a string, alongside plentiful berried boughs of holly that our neighbour brought over as a Christmas gift. I have since learnt from

Victoria Harrison

’s gentle solstice rituals post that bringing evergreens in is an ancient practice bringing hope that life will return and strength to endure the darkest night.

I realise now that I was feeling drawn to bringing the wisdom of the outside world inwards to sit alongside music and candlelight in our home.

Ivy, snowflakes and candlelight at home.

Darkness beyond.

And yet, embedded deeply in my nascent love of winter, there is darkness to be held here. Between each warm thought is an unspeakable darkness that must be spoken — grief of those close to me and the depths of suffering on a global scale as catastrophes continue to unfold. There are places where winter’s grip does not loosen, where tender pain is intensified and where there is a need for more than magic. I remain hopeful that we indeed reach the darkest point before we begin to see glimmers of light.

This year, I will be holding my family tightly, lighting a candle at sunset on the shortest day and placing it amongst the evergreens — trusting in the enduring continuity between light and dark, inward and outward, stillness and growth.

Our ‘Christmas door’ according to my son.

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Thank you for reading.

I am wishing you a quiet solstice and a very merry Christmas — my heartfelt thanks for joining me here this year, I can’t wait to explore more together in 2024.

Lyndsay x

1. i.e., its noontime elevation does not seem to change from day to day.