12 Days of Yule — Day One

Field Notes from the Longest Night

The longest night of the year has begun.Darkness has settled in, not heavy, but complete. The air outside is cool, crisp, and dry. Thin, wispy clouds drift overhead. After a steady breath beneath the solstice sky, I return indoors to the comfort of my chair beside the tree in my studio.

The white, flocked branches are gathered with quiet treasures: animals, birds, pinecones, and small echoes of the natural world. Cool white lights glow against the snow-frosted needles, sparkling like sugar and ice. Each time I look at the tree, I’m reminded of winter’s calm, the hush of freshly fallen snow, the way stillness can feel like rest instead of emptiness. I think of how snow and ice glitter when the sun rises just above the tree line. The clean magic of winter. The way it clears both the air and the mind.

Classical carols drift softly in the background, unhurried and familiar. Their harmonies open small doorways into memory and dream. Peace. Contentment. Simplicity. A sense of wholeness, even as some dreams remain unrealized.

I find myself aware of the chapters still waiting ahead. But tonight, I am grateful for the now. For this pause. For this quiet beginning. For the way winter asks nothing more than presence.