Winter Lessons, by Molly M. Remer

Yes, it is December
already and again.
Let yourself notice the milkweed pods,
how they have split their sides
and are sending silky white seed fluffs
into the waiting air.
Witness the trees,
bare and gray and patient.
Watch the squirrels,
tails puffed against the chill,
stored nuts in their cheeks.
Listen to the wind
how it whispers and rattles
through the empty branches.
Watch the clouds,
slow-moving white billows
in a pale blue sky.
Be patient with yourself.
Grant yourself grace.
Remember the three invitations
of the solstice season:
to listen,
to wonder,
to be content.
Remember your promise
to keep company with joy.
Remember your vow
to be in devotion
to your own life.
Think about everything
there is to do.
Open your hands.
Feel that thin, whispering
winter wind
skim over your palms.
Take a deep breath.
Allow yourself to marvel
at all this year
has held.
Bless it.
Thank it.
Cup your hands
around your own face.
Say: thank you.
Here you are in the center
of your own life’s unfolding.
There is nowhere else to be.
Be gentle with yourself.
Invite the winter crone to tea.
Look into her eyes.
See yourself reflected there,
your own winter eyes open
to the possibility
of both clarity and delight.

I have been writing for Feminism and Religion for 13 years. In the summer, I compiled a post with 13 summer lessons from 13 years of posts here at FAR. I decided to bookend that post with a Winter Lessons post as well. Here are thirteen lessons to share from past winter posts:

Lesson One: Listen to the wisdom of flowers and keep the torch shining.

“We must keep the torch lit. We must remember that for all those who act to suppress and stifle, who act to compress and to kill, there are those who act to replenish, to reach and to raise, those who will keep the fire burning and the cauldron tended on long, dark nights in the cold, when we fear there is no one left to care. May we never forget that we are the hope, we are the hands, we are the torch and the tea, the blossom and the fruit, a circle, still singing among all that screams and shouts.”

Lesson Two: Honor the darkness.

In fact, isn’t darkness the womb of all creation? It is from this dark space that we emerge—whether from our own mothers or from the more mysterious cosmic “sea” of soul—and it is to darkness that we return when we close our eyes for the final time.  Darkness holds our DNA. Our link to the past and the future. At the birth of the universe, some part of us was there, in that explosion from darkness.

Lesson Three: Honor your ancestors (these can be ancestors of bone and/or ancestors of stone).

Sink deeply
and gently
into the arms and lap
of time
the great mother of us all

Lesson Four: Make space to cocoon.

This sinking in, this cocooning, this safe, small world is perfect for the call of winter. While my to-do list has again begun to clang in my ear and the clamor of my other children surrounds me, the early nights, cold temperatures, and gray skies, remind me to nestle, remember, and grow. Beautiful magic takes root in dark, deep places.

Lesson Five: Make your own magic.

“The tools are unimportant; we have all we need to make magic: our bodies, our breath, our voices, each other.”

–Starhawk

Lesson Six: Keep studying in Earth’s Mystery School.

One morning, as I walk to the temple, this beautiful rose makes me drop to my knees with delight. Yes. This right here. This is a beautiful moment. As I kneel beside the rose, the Body Prayer song* wells out of me until I have tears in my eyes.

Lesson Seven: Practice wise discernment.

This shift toward winter is a time of discernment. A time to choose. A time to notice that which has not made it through the summer’s heat and thus needs to be pruned away. In this time of the year, we both recognize the harvest of our labors and that which needs to be released or even sacrificed as we sense the promise of the new year to come.

Lesson Eight: Honor the sacredness of both endings and beginnings.

This personal ceremony in which I make a physical connection with the things I’ve created in the course of a year goes beyond an “annual review” and into something more special. Personal, intentional, dedicated, private, developed ceremonies are powerful–rather than being saved to share only with others, they communicate to you that you are worth it on your own.

Lesson Nine: Celebrate both the mess and the magic.

maybe beautiful things don’t only grow from peace,
maybe they need this too, this mess, in order to flourish.

Lesson Ten: Remember that restoration is the antidote to depletion.

When we look to the earth, we see that she teaches us that unchecked growth is not sustainable, that a fallow time for the field produces a more bountiful harvest, that continual blooming without fruiting or seeds or not normal or healthy, that there must be a time of withdrawal before there can be a time of renewal, that we must nourish what we plant or it will not thrive, and that life moves in cycles of production and restoration.

Lesson Eleven: Listen to the children.

We are not sure if tears can say
what we mean to say,
but they fall anyway
as we try our best to weave
our words and wishes
and songs and stories,
with strength and confidence
into a cloak of power
that will encircle them with magic,
no matter
how far away
from us they journey.

Lesson Twelve: Descend into the cave.

This is cave time. The darkness divine. The holy black. A time in which we remember that beautiful magic takes root in dark, deep places.

Lesson Thirteen: Keep tending the web.

We become dangerous when we resist the fragmentation, the occupation and co-optation of our minds and hearts, the things that hijack our attention and our time. We become dangerous when we slip out of these bonds, through the spider webs and into the rain, faces tilted up to a gray sky, hands against our hearts, the slow and quiet whispers of a new song drifting to us across the chilly winds of change.  

Happy Yuletide Season, everyone! Happy Winter Solstice! May we continue to connect, listen, and learn.

“It is the life of the crystal,
the architect of the flake,
the fire of the frost,
the soul of the sunbeam.
This crisp winter air is full of it.”
-John Burroughs