It’s mid-December. The trees are bare, the ground frozen. Daylight disappears around 4 pm. Here in the Northern Hemisphere, the Winter Solstice marks the longest night of the year. Festivities celebrate the promise that the Sun, with its life-giving warmth, is making its way back to us. With the season of snow, sleet and ice is picking up speed, this is a time of hope. The Sun, whether you spell it Sun or Son, is returning. Light has been reborn.
For many years, I led a Winter Solstice ritual at Meg’s Inspirations, a local gift shop and spiritual boutique. What follows is my most recent Solstice ritual. If attending a live Solstice ritual is not an option for you, use your imagination. Here’s how the ritual unfolded.
Participants sat in a semi-circle in front of two, long banquet tables placed end to end. The tables were draped in red and white cloth. Thanks to Meg and her husband, Ed, we had about thirty Yule logs. Some were cut to lay horizontally, some were cut as pillars. Each log held either a tea light or a taper of white, red, or green. The logs stretched across both tables. Between the logs, I tucked garlands of artificial winter greens and an abundant, aromatic layer of fresh pine and cedar that Meg cut just that morning. Along with the Yule logs, I had an assortment of tabletop trees, gold and silver globes of light, and a wreath of votive candles. We dimmed the overhead lights and imagined we had entered a magical forest.
The busyness of the holidays can be distracting. For some people, traffic was an obstacle. So we took a few deep breaths, cleared our thoughts, and centered our attention on the season.
Honoring the Native American tradition she’d been taught, Meg called the four directions. Some of the people there had been to seasonal rituals before. For others, this was a new experience. I adjusted accordingly.
To begin, I talked about a few seasonal symbols:
- A wreath of evergreens symbolizes the sun that never dies.
- In the Old World, a decorated tree outside the home signaled a safe place for travelers to find food or shelter. Today, we decorate trees both outside and inside. What remains is the message of goodwill.
- From the Latin word for “hinge,” a cardinal represents the closing of one door and the opening of another. Think about that the next time you see a bright red cardinal in a tree.
The Old English song Light is Returning speaks to both the physical and the metaphysical actions of the Winter Solstice. With that in mind, I invited three people to read the lyrics of the song.
Light is returning,
Even though this is the darkest hour.
No one can hold back the dawn.
Let’s keep it burning,
Let’s keep the light of hope alive.
Make safe our journey through the storm.
Our planet is turning
Circles on her path around the sun.
Earth Mother is calling her children home.
We talked about what we hoped for in the new year and acknowledged what we would leave behind in the old year. Whether you’re doing this ritual by yourself or with others, allow time for this step. It’s just as important to have an aspirational vision of the future as it is to have a realistic understanding of the past. The Yule logs represented that continuity of past, present, future. In the Old World, the December Yule logs were cut from the pole erected for the fertility festival of Beltane in May. Traditionally, a family preserved a charred piece of their Yule log and used it to kindle the fire the following December.
Over the years, I’ve created several different rituals for the Winter Solstice. For this year, I structured the ritual around the myth and magic of trees. The basic idea is simple: the roots represent the Underworld, the realm of the ancestors, the trunk the mundane world of our everyday life, and the branches the Upper world, the realm of the spirits. We know that the mythology of many ancient cultures includes a Tree of Life or Tree of Knowledge. We see the magic of trees in fairy tales. You know how it goes. The hero enters the forest, gets lost, faces a life-or-death challenge, gets help from a magical being. Maybe she learns a secret or receives a magical tool of some kind. In facing the challenge head-on, the hero discovers something about herself. She is forever transformed by that knowledge.
Specific trees have their stories, too. The stories vary all over the world. Here in New England where maple trees are common, the sweet sap that rises in February is the blood of Mother Nature as Father Sun gently rouses her from winter’s sleep.
Wherever you live, you know that the hole at the base of many kinds of trees — that arched opening framed with gnarly wood laced with lichen and guarded by mushrooms — that hole is the doorway to the enchanted world of the Faeries. You do know that, don’t you?
Now, if you live among elms, with their two trunks forming a V-shape, you might know it as the “vase” tree, or as the woman with long legs.
In Siberia, trees were believed to hold up the sky. In Bali, there’s a story about a tree that’s so fragrant the natives feared that, if found by foreigners, the trees would be stolen. So they would place rotting corpses in the forest to discourage exploration. In Indonesia, villagers once used the sipate tree as a grave for babies who died before they started teething. Their bodies would be wrapped in cloth and placed upright in a niche carved in the trunk of a living tree. The opening would then be covered with a rectangular “door” of sorts woven with palm fibers. Why the sipate tree? Because its sap is white, like milk. The people believed that the tree would nurture the spirit of the infant as it made its journey to the Afterlife. (You can see a photo of the baby grave tree in the book Wise Trees by Diane Cook and Len Jenshel.)
Think about the trees you’ve read about in books. Alice Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll comes to mind immediately. Alice follows the White Rabbit down the hole at the base of a tree and her adventure begins. Think about trees you’ve seen in movies. Who could forget the scene in Avatar when we see the tree, the life force for countless generations of the blue beings. And then there’s the Subaru commercial with the hippy-era grandmother hugging a tree at Woodstock as she tells her pre-teen granddaughter how she met and fell in love with the girl’s grandfather right there under that tree.
Here’s a real-life example. In 2017, I was the wedding officiant for Ashley and Clayton. They held their ceremony on a Christmas tree farm. The land had been in Clayton’s family for generations. It came with an old farmhouse that had been empty for many years, exposed to the ravages of New England winters. Several years before the wedding, Clayton took over the property. Over time, he and Ashley renovated the house. And they carved a heart with their initials on a tree in the backyard. I always get a warm, fuzzy feeling when I think about their wedding and how we were all surrounded by Christmas trees, the image of joy and generosity, hope and light eternal.
Unfortunately, that’s not what I felt several years ago watching videos of the wildfires in California and Australia, the loss of human life and property, the threat to the Giant Redwoods, and to the life and habitat of the kangaroo and koala. Life in general has familiarized us with the loss of life or property. Yet, even if we’ve never seen a Giant Redwood or a koala in the wild, we feel protective.
Did you have a favorite tree as a child? Mine was a weeping willow. It grew right outside my bedroom window. I grew up in Tidewater, Virginia, on land reclaimed from the Great Dismal Swamp. The land was always wet. And weeping willows have shallow roots. In the aftermath of a hurricane, “my” tree lay on its side, its root ball, well over seven feet wide, exposed in some earthy autopsy. My friend Carla Neggers grew up in a big family. Craving quiet time to read, she would climb a tree in her yard and sit there for hours. She’s now a best-selling novelist and I’m certain she remembers that tree with fondness.
For just a moment, imagine what the world would be like if all tees looked the same — same bark, same leaves, same sap. Imagine that all trees — all trees — are only five feet tall. And now imagine that the lifespan of a tree is the same as the average lifespan of a human. People gasped at the idea! Fortunately, trees are not all the same, and they have life spans all their own. Thinking of their unique qualities, I asked 12 people to read the lyrics to another traditional Old English song.
Oaken logs will warm you well,
That are old and dry.
Logs of pine will sweetly smell
But the sparks will fly.
Birch logs will burn too fast.
Chestnut, scarce at all.
Hawthorn logs are good to last,
Burn them in the fall.
Holly logs will burn like wax;
You may burn them green.
Elm logs, like to smoldering flax,
No flame to be seen.
Beech logs for the winter-time;
Yew logs as well.
Green elder logs it is a crime
For any man to sell.
Pear logs and apple logs,
They will scent your room.
Cherry logs across the dogs
Smell like flowers of broom.
Ashen logs, smooth and gray,
Burn them green or old.
Buy up all that come your way;
Worth their weight in gold.
Oaken logs will warm you well,
That are old and dry.
If you want to hear this poem set to music, I invite you to listen to the album “This Winter’s Night: A Celebration of the Winter Solstice” by MotherTongue.
At one end of the banquet tables I had placed a large, hand-carved, wooden bowl filled with evergreen clippings. On top of the clippings I had slips of parchment-looking paper, each tightly folded, each with a message from a tree. I invited each person to be guided by the trees represented in the basket and receive a message. Once everyone had a message, we took turns reading them aloud. Here is the list of trees I chose for the ritual. Which tree calls to you?
If you chose the Alder: You are the Teacher. You have the ability to guide others because your words will be long remembered. Speak with kindness.
If you chose the Apple: You are the Warrior, the Magician who can travel to the Otherworld and back. You have known sacrifice and hardship. Know your power to heal.
If you chose the Ash: You are the Old Wise One, sensitive to the vibrations of the earth and all her creatures. A deer fed on your leaves and from its antlers poured all the rivers of the world. Unicorns recognize your inner fire and know they are safe in your soothing presence. Know the significance of your life.
If you chose the Birch: You are the Meditator. No need to fear the silence. Go within, especially in the winter. Connect with the Crones. They will midwife your rebirth as the Maiden. When you know the limitations of age, you will know wisdom. Dance with abandonment.
If you chose the White Birch: You are the Communicator. You attract good allies and like-minded people who are devoted to each other through friendship. Share your vision of how we are all joined at the roots.
If you chose the Cherry: You are the Creator of Beauty and understand the fleeting value of time, especially time with family and friends. The magical Phoenix slept on a bed of cherry blossoms to bestow you with everlasting life. Acknowledge the gifts others offer to the world.
If you chose the Elder: You are the Voice for the Ancestors. They speak through you. Trust their wisdom. For your own health and prosperity, confront what needs to change. Trust your wisdom.
If you chose the Hawthorn: You are the Fairy Queen. Embrace enchantment and protect the forest temple. The owl will guide you. Claim your authentic self. Keep yourself sacred.
If you chose the Hazel: You are the Seeker who gathers knowledge from all over the world. Your nuts contain the wisdom of the Universe. Inspire others with your experience.
If you chose the Hickory: You are the Candle of Inner Illumination. All hearts — the courageous and the timid — need the brightness of your flame. Tend your fire.
If you chose the Locust: You are the Will to Live. Though your crooked growth makes you unsuitable for lumber, you are the prize of shipbuilders, for contact with water makes you hard as iron. Your flowers draw honeybees. Protect them and all who are in danger.
If you chose the Maple: You are the Sweetness of Life. Your ability to nurture both body and spirit draws everyone to your table for you are the heart of the family. Open your door.
If you chose the Red Oak: You are the Survivor. You’ve heard the whispers of long ago: “Faerie folk are in old oaks.” Carry an acorn. Know you are part of a legacy.
If you chose the White Oak: You are the Giver of Abundance. In Finland, people tell the story of an oak that grew so tall it obliterated the light of the sun, moon and stars. A creature with a golden hatchet chopped the tree until it fell, clearing the sky and spreading acorns to form the Milky Way. See your gifts on the ground and in the night sky.
While we all took a few moments to reflect on the messages we had been given, I lit the candles on the altar. The transformation from a darkened room to one glowing with candle light was beautiful!
One by one, we shared the messages we had received from the trees.
To close the ritual, each person came to the altar and snuffed out the candle on their chosen Yule log, and took the log back to their seat. The Yule logs were gifts from Meg and her husband. Holding our logs, we formed a circle. We could feel the energy of shaping our own sun. We had heard the stories some people shared. We felt an invisible bond. That’s because when we participate in ritual with an open heart, we can all feel the magic.
In seasonal rituals, we see how our lives follow the cycles of nature. You don’t have to be a farmer to recognize the pattern: We plant, we grow, we harvest, we rest. At the Winter Solstice, we align with the pattern of the sun and the promise of new life. As the old year ends and the new year begins, we review the past and set goals for the future. We raise a glass to honor those who have died, to toast friendships old and new. The energy of the season asks us to remember, to forgive, and to move forward.
Ritual helps us see and share the symbols of the season. The round, evergreen wreath on the front door welcomes the return of the everlasting sun. The candle in the window tells us we’ll get through the dark. The flame symbolizes the life-force itself. That’s why we give candles as gifts. Without words, the candle says, “May health and vitality be yours in the new year.” Even if we can’t explain why, we feel a resonance to something ancient, the eternal cycle of life and death. We realize we’re part of something bigger than ourselves.
In ritual, we affirm that we belong, that our contribution to the whole matters, that in facing the past, in honoring the best of who we are, we’re building a better future. And that, my friend, helps us to live a meaningful, magical life.
