Rituals and Reflections for the

Rituals and Reflections for the Winter Solstice

by Victoria Houser

Many ancient pagan traditions consider the winter solstice to be the most profound, spiritual event of the year. It is the start of the new astronomical year when the dark of winter reaches its peak and the days slowly begin to shift into light. In the Northern Hemisphere’s deep heart of winter, the earth’s axis comes into perfect balance as the North Pole points directly away from the sun. In a moment of balance between light and dark, the earth rests in perfect equilibrium. In the stillness and quiet of winter, the solstice beckons us to mindfully align our bodies with the spirit of change and new beginnings. The winter solstice is a time to open our hands and release the weight of darkness. What new life waits for us as sunlight thickens? While the advent of longer, brighter days inspires hope for the horizons of a new year, the work of inviting this hope into our bodies, our homes, and our communities is a process that requires no small amount of endurance on our part. Hope is a precarious feeling and an even more precarious practice. To create room for hope in the darkest days we must pay attention to the things we’re carrying that keep hope at arm’s length. At the time of the solstice, I invite you to breathe in the rich, deep beauty of the calm hours of the earth. Slowly release feelings of doubt, anxiety, and fear. The days will start to gradually grow brighter as new life forms on the horizon. Plants and trees will begin new cycles, and our bodies will start to turn toward the chilly touches of winter’s sun. The world will transform.

The transformation out of darkness and into light happens at an almost imperceptible rate. We will start to see minutes of daylight creeping back into the world day by day, like the slow and steady movement of the tide changing. For now, though, our bodies are still in the deepest part of winter. Much like the trees and plants around us, growth slowly occurs under the surface of our daily lives as we breathe in and out each moment. The winter solstice highlights turning points in our external cycles of darkness and light, showing us the capacious nature of life. Nothing lasts forever, which is the blessing of seasons. This is an invitation to listen to the movement happening within ourselves. For the briefest moment, the world is suspended in a perfect balance of light and dark. Our bodies hang in the delicate suspension of the ever turning, ever changing earth cycles. Since most of our lives are organized around the busyness of our daily tasks and moments of introspection can be difficult to find, it is crucial to take the quiet space of earth’s transformation to center yourself in the equilibrium of the winter solstice.

As you read this, listen to what your body feels right now. Breathe in deeply and then release the breath in your lungs slowly. Take a moment to be still. What have you learned this year about your body? What is your body holding for you while you move through your life, taking in the events of the world and navigating the on-going pandemic? Where does your body feel tense? These are all pieces of you. These are the fragments of many seasons full of sadness, joy, contentment, and longing. You’ve carried the configuration and fractures of the year with your body all this time. Take a moment to rest with these pieces. Suspend judgment as you observe the thoughts that arise. As we move through the following reflections, lore, and rituals for the winter solstice, let the soft animal of your body rest in a balance of feelings and thoughts. Beiwe: Scandinavian Goddess of the Winter Solstice

known as the Saami, traditionally worshiped the sun goddess Beiwe. She is a goddess of light, fertility, and sanity, thus celebrated at the winter solstice to honor the season’s shift from deep darkness into increased light. Traditionally, Beiwe is celebrated at both the winter and the summer solstice in unique ways. During the winter celebrations, Beiwe is entreated to renew life and oversee the growth of plants by increasing fertility in the soil through the process of returning dead plants to the earth. She is also known for her ability to ease mental anguish and depression in the long winter months. As a goddess of light, Beiwe promises future life and renewal for plants, humans, and animals.

The rituals and beliefs of northern people groups are incredibly important for promoting peace and well-being during the year’s darkest time periods. These practices are especially important in places where the winter season lasts for several months and temperatures regularly drop below zero—places where movement, life, and warmth are deeply bound up with survival methods. I grew up in Southeast Alaska, and I am intimately familiar with the toll that winter’s prevailing frigidity and blank skies enacts on the psyche and body. On some days it seemed impossible to believe that the world was once warm and light. Time stretched out across tapestries of leafless trees and snow-covered mountain ranges. In December, it was difficult to tell where the pale, cloudy sky ended, and the white peaks of the mountains began. As I watched the winter deepen, my life would settle into a blurred, greyish haze of monotony. The days felt heavy with the immense darkness and relentless cold that covered the world. During these days, it was crucial for the members of our community to find connections that sustain life while we waded through the thickness of winter. In that thickness, Beiwe continues to encourage us to seek the light within other forms of life, such as plants and animals, that also need a tenacious tenderness to protect against the harsh breath of winter.

The connections between humans, animals, and plants underpin many of the beliefs shared among northern indigenous people. Beiwe unites nature, drawing all life into an ecology where we nurture and respond to the sacred beings of plants and animals as they do the same for our human bodies. Animals and plants are believed to share sacred spiritual connections to humans, and at the time of the winter solstice, Beiwe encourages us to tend to these connections as a method for alleviating the stress placed on all life forms during the winter. Today, we see ourselves as increasingly separate from plants and animals, and many of our practices have alienated us from the symbiotic relationship shared across nature. At this moment of solstice, it is important to reflect on and create spaces in our homes and communities to nurture our connections to the earth and to all its life.

As we reflect on the changes in light that are on our horizon, let us consider how our bodies and our daily practices can draw us into closer relationships with the earth and all its inhabitants. Our social structures feel tense and stretched to the breaking point across political and cultural discord. What would it look like to pull ourselves outside the barriers of our social constructs? We have so many practices to keep our bodies moving through our social climate, but in slowing down we can see places for deeper growth and connection. Just for a moment, pause in your reading. Search in your memories for a place that beckoned to you in your past, a place of comfort and peace. This could be a garden, or a mountain, a pond, or even a single flower. Let the flower be a refuge for you. For now, you may need to take refuge alone, letting your body rest in solitude. Eventually, you can slowly begin to invite others into your place of refuge, practicing vulnerability with those you trust.

In practicing deep introspection, Beiwe invites us to think about our relationships with plants, animals, others, and how these networks interact and breathe together. Where has harm been done? Where can healing begin? As we find ourselves in the heart of winter’s coldest months, allow yourself time to slow down. Consider how the vulnerabilities of your body to the cold, harsh winter weather connect you to the cycles of earth. What would it mean to embrace moments of pain, joy, beauty, and even death as interconnected forces? In her essay, “An Ecology of the Body,” Celeste Snowber writes: “To begin letting this glorious sensuous earth into [our] bodies is a place to shift the tides. We are living from skin to sky. It is all one. What if we could look at the marks and scars on our aging bodies or young bodies and see the wonder of the canyonlands? Treasuring the fragility and strength as complementary pairs of being human” (78). What does it mean to be living from skin to sky in the depth of winter? At this moment of solstice, look over your body’s memories and embrace the wonder of your changing universe. The Quiet Life of Winter

As I prepared to write this, I remembered a drive frequently made to the Spokane, Washington airport. The road from my home to the airport was about 80 miles, and it stretched through breathtaking landscapes of snow-covered wheat fields and forests full of pine trees. One year, I drove the whole way in a blizzard to make it home to Alaska for Christmas. My body felt like it was in an intense fight with external elements that would have been welcome if I were indoors, safely sipping hot tea. There’s something about that drive that made me feel at odds with my own skin. I love the snow, but that day my body raged against the beautiful, crystalized flakes as they slowed me down. Entering the deepest part of winter this year, I feel drawn to reflections on how my body, and all bodies, are connected to earth’s cycles and elemental changes. What does the darkness have to teach us about ourselves and about our connections to the earth?

The underlying anxieties around our relationship to nature stand out in moments when we feel at odds with the world

around us. In the winter, especially as roads become treacherous and freezing temperatures threaten the lives of our plants, there is nowhere to hide from our vulnerabilities. There is a long history of writing about nature that demonstrates the ways humans position the earth as oppositional to our bodies. For example, by describing harsh terrain or inclement weather as elements in need of conquering, humans assign values and motives to nature that render the earth as separate from bodily life. Yet, our bodies belong to the earth’s wilderness just as much as a tree or a houseplant or a river also belongs to the earth. We are nature. Somewhere along the line, though, we began to see ourselves as stewards of and even owners and conquerors of the natural world. In setting ourselves in opposition to nature, though, we lose both deep connection to the earth and to ourselves.

The winter solstice encourages us to work toward healing these connections between our bodies and all other natural elements of the earth. As I reflect on what Beiwe teaches us about our connection to plants and animals, I am struck with how vulnerable our fleshly bodies are in the vast expanse of the earth’s organisms. In the darkest, stillest moments of winter, I am humbled by the beautiful fortitude of the plant life that surrounds me, by the water that continues to flow under frozen surfaces, by bears that make homes within the earth to ward off the cold. This type of reflection on nature can open paths for connection, but it is certainly not the full process. Stories of how animals, plants, mountains, and rivers inspire humans still positions nature as something outside our own bodily existence, which makes this type of reflection hollow. To see ourselves as truly connected to nature, we must first welcome deeper levels of vulnerability and humility regarding our bodily existence. When we understand our bodies as vulnerable life forms, we invite a more symbiotic relationship between earth’s cycles of life and death and our own daily, lived reality.

Vulnerability in the face of all life’s untamed, unruly wilderness does not come easily. One summer, while hiking through a mountain pass, I lost my footing in a river and was trapped under a log, certain I would drown there. I wrapped my arms around the log, knowing that if I let go, I would be swept under the current that was raging against my body. I felt every second pound against my weakening muscles as I summoned every ounce of energy in my system to stay alive. My body hovered in a suspension of life and death, and I felt the terrifying uncertainty of every moment. After a few minutes (that felt more like hours) had passed, I was pulled out by two hikers who happened to be passing me. In that moment, my body was not outside of or separate from the life of the forest and river. I learned about the fragile vulnerability of my body within a system of life much larger than it.

The vulnerability of my body doesn’t cling to me, it doesn’t haunt me, it doesn’t come to me in flashes. It sits inside every tendon, every muscle, maybe even every cell. It knows me. It does not inspire or scare or teach me. It simply lives, breathes. Much like the winter solstice’s quiet equilibrium of light and dark, the moment of suspension between life and death is fraught with desperate unknowns. In our exposure to the unknown, Beiwe offers protection—not necessarily a guarantee of life, but a knowledge that in accepting our vulnerability, we find connection to the continuous, expansive pulse of all life.

As we’ve moved into winter, our plants (especially any annuals planted in spring) have been struggling for life in the waning light. Over the past month, I have watched my beautiful monstera plant’s leaves start to turn yellow and brown around the edges. A new leaf started to grow into

the plant, and that, too, browned before it even unfurled into full life. In caring for my cherished plant, I have done much research, tried different treatments for the soil, tried different variants of light exposure (including a growth light), and nothing has worked. I feel the life force of this tender plant ebb in and out as the sun rises later and sets sooner. My connection to and care for my plant may not be enough to keep her alive.

As a way of honoring the monstera’s life and all the warmth she has brought to my home, I have spent significant time grieving her wilting leaves. Every morning, I stand next to her. I feel the soil softly. I touch the edges of her leaves that are still green, letting myself observe her life. I listen to what happens in my body, asking where I feel tension, noticing where any pain resides, and often quietly releasing tears as my body softens next to her. Grieving these losses may seem silly, but by investing in our relationship with the life of our plants we experience a profound connectivity to the cycles of growth and decline they experience. As light wanes in the winter, the winter solstice provides a moment of relief as life hovers over the threshold of darkness, and then shifts toward the light. The solstice brings us the promise that life will return in the midst of the pain that colors the darkest days. Allowing ourselves to freely feel joy and sorrow about our gardens and our house plants plays a significant role in shifting our social attitudes and relationships with each other and with the world.

The winter months are certainly not all doom and gloom for our beloved plants, though. One way to preserve the life of your plants in winter is to take a small clipping of the plant and place it in a glass of water. Then, be sure to put the clipping in a place where it will receive significant daylight (or you can use a grow light to provide even more light in the winter months). In a few days or a week, you will start to see roots emerge in the water. Once a substantial root system has formed, you can transfer the plant into new soil. Make sure you research which soil will be best for the baby plant that you are propagating before you perform the transplant.

If you are hesitant to perform the precarious act of propagating plants, you can also invite the inclusion of winter plants into your home. There are, in fact, many wondrous plants that thrive in colder seasons, most of which you will recognize in festive settings. Mistletoe, Ivy, and Holly are a few such plants, and below you will find descriptions of the mystical characteristics of these beauties. Mistletoe

Most of us recognize mistletoe as a plant that symbolizes passion and its invitation to bestow affection. Mistletoe is also a healer and protector, though, offering courage and endurance. In ancient lore, the plant was always delicately cut to make sure it never touched earth. The magical elements of mistletoe stem from the belief that it lives between worlds, never touching the earth, suspended between realms.

Holly Another evergreen of protection, holly’s spiky bristles are believed to repel unwanted spirits. Holly is sacred to Holle, the Germanic underworld goddess, and symbolizes everlasting life, goodwill, and potent life energy. Its red berries represent feminine blood. Together, mistletoe and holly represent the Sacred Marriage at the winter solstice with the rebirth of the Sun.

Ivy

Ivy is an evergreen symbol of immortality and resurrection, growing in a spiral to remind us of reincarnation and rebirth. Sacred to Osiris, because his death and resurrection were a central theme in Egyptian religion. Sacred also to Dionysys, god of vegetation, blossoming and the Return of Spring.

Sources

Snowber, Celeste. “An Ecology of the Body” in Embodied Inquiry: Writing, Living, and Being Through the Body. Sense Publishers, 2016.