Winter invites us inward. In the quieter, darker months, life below the surface continues—roots strengthen, seeds rest, and unseen transformation begins. The slow dark of winter asks for a pause, a softening of attention, and careful listening for a longing within that wants to be held in the dark—something tender, emerging, not yet ready for the light. This seed asks only for rest, acknowledgement, and gentle tending—so that when spring arrives, growth becomes possible.

Winter darkness calls for walking the spiral and entering the slow inward journey that invites presence, stillness, and rest. During a Wild Church gathering, a conversation about solstice included someone sharing delight in every moment of daylight. A quiet response arose for me: I crave darkness, each moment of darkness is cherished. Such a response was not always there, over the past five years a different relationship with darkness has been cultivated—one rooted in trust, love, and reverence. The dark has become a place of gentle holding, where the world softens, listening deepens, breath flows more freely, and spaciousness becomes available.

Solstice feels like a threshold into winter—the season of long nights, release, rest, stillness, and listening. Across the land, gardens, trees, and animals enter dormancy, carrying ancient knowledge of seasonal cycles. Plants die back, while seeds and bulbs settle into the soil to wait. Life, death, and rebirth are visible teachers during this time.

Here is a spiritual practice to pull you deeper into the dark that Solstice offers.