The Winter Solstice is approaching. I’m drinking Baileys on ice like it’s mother’s milk and I’m trying to blur the boundaries between waking and sleeping; I’m almost always trying to live in a story anyway (my preference this winter is Tolkien-inspired). We have the Winter Solstice of the imagination and then there is the reality..it’s too warm & I long for an Artic chill. I’m from the North. I want the air to be properly cold, too cold to even breath in. I want to want to burn things and inch as close to the flames as I dare. I want to wander through forests where the sun never rises above the highest brances…..ooh, like this!
I’ve no spells for the Winter Solstice. My intention is to infuse myself with dreams and stories; so much of magic is imagination…the bright stars of the long winter solstice night; hearing the trees creak in the wind, sleeping soundly underneath a pile of quilts; the snow falling outside, dreaming deeply, telling stories, the taste of caramel on the tongue and seeking out fur.
I’ll light all the candles and bring green leaves into the house. I’ll turn myself into a bear. I’ll re-read my journals, indulge in some nostalgia and then get ready for that sacred moment, that first heartbeat of the returning sun. It’s very subtle though, you need to be quiet and to be honest, I usually miss it. What we all connect with is that first breath of the New Year; everyone knows when the air brings the feel of Spring with it.