Take a slow breath in and let it drift out like a long exhale across winter fields.
Settle your body into stillness.
Let your bones become quiet.
Let your breath unfurl slowly like a ribbon loosening in candlelight.
Tonight,
We enter the longest night of the year,
The turning point,
The holy hush,
Where the dark cradles the returning light.
Another deep gentle breath,
This is your doorway into the solstice,
Into renewal,
Into the place where your inner flame remembers how to glow.
Let the body rest into the night.
Bring your awareness to the crown of your head.
Imagine soft starlight pooling there,
Cool and shimmering,
Like silver water waiting to fall.
Let it drizzle down through your scalp.
Relax your forehead.
Let old worry lines soften as the winter winds have smoothed over.
Relax your eyes,
Your cheeks,
Your jaw.
Let the whole face loosen,
Like frost melting beneath the morning sun.
The starlight travels down into your throat,
Relaxing the words you never said,
The ones you carried too long,
The ones you whispered into your pillow.
Your shoulders drop,
Unburdened,
Like trees releasing snow.
Let the starlight glide down your arms,
Your hands,
Your fingertips.
Relax your chest,
Your lungs rising and falling,
Like moonlit tides on a quiet,
Calm night.
Relax your stomach,
Your lower back,
Your hips.
Feel them soften into the earth below you,
As though remembering an ancient rhythm.
Relax your thighs,
Your knees,
Your calves,
All the way to your ankles and to your feet.
Your whole body now rests in luminous stillness,
As though you were made of a winter sky.
Breathe in for four.
Hold for two.
Exhale for six.
Again,
In for four.
Pause,
And let it go.
Each inhale gathers the quiet of the solstice.
Each exhale releases the weight of the year.
Let your breath sweep through like a soft broom through a sacred space,
Clearing every corner,
Every shadow,
Every fragment of the old year still clinging to your ribs.
Feel yourself becoming lighter,
As though your bones remember what it feels like to be unburdened.
Imagine now that you are standing at the edge of an ancient winter forest.
Tall pines tower above you,
Dusted in soft snow that glows under the faintest crescent moon.
The air smells clean,
Like cedar,
Like cold water and something holy.
You step onto the forest path,
Snow crunches beneath your feet,
A slow,
Steady heartbeat.
As you walk,
Tiny flakes drift down around you,
Catching the moonlight,
Turning the world into a field of quiet stars.
Deeper and deeper,
You walk into the forest,
Until you reach a clearing lit by a single beam of moonlight.
Here,
In the center,
Rests a fire,
Small,
Steady,
Its flame low and golden,
As though waiting just for you.
This is your solstice fire.
It burns only for truth,
For renewal,
And for what is worthy of carrying forward.
Offering to the Solstice Fire Beneath the fire is a bowl carved from dark stone.
Inside are small slips of parchment,
Blank,
Weightless,
Waiting for your touch.
You pick one up,
Let your intention fill it,
A fear that you are ready to release.
A heavy thought worn thin by repetition,
A habit that dims your inner light,
A memory whose season has ended.
Write it down in your mind,
No effort,
Just recognition.
Hold the slip to your heart for a moment,
Then place it gently into the solstice fire.
Watch as it catches,
Glowing first gold,
Then white,
Then dissolving into ash that floats upwards,
Into the dark,
Like a tiny soul freed.
Repeat this as many times as needed,
Until you feel yourself growing lighter from the inside out.
Nothing released tonight will return.
This is the promise of the longest night.
Calling back the light.
Now the fire shrinks into a gentle ember,
A single glowing pulse.
Before you,
On the snow,
Three radiant seeds appear,
Each shimmering with quiet magic.
These are the seeds of your returning light.
You kneel before them.
The first seed glows soft gold,
It holds the intention of inner steadiness.
Touch it,
And feel it whisper,
I trust my own dawn.
The second seed glows rose pink,
It holds the intention of self-compassion.
Touch it,
And hear it murmur,
I deserve tenderness in all that I do.
The third seed glows deep,
Silver blue,
And holds the intention of becoming.
The future self calling softly through the dark.
When you touch it,
It hums,
I rise,
Even in the longest night.
Place these seeds into your heart.
Feel them settle.
Feel them take root.
Feel them warming you from the inside out,
The way the first sunbeam warms the earth after a long winter.
Become the light.
Stand again in the clearing.
The moon above glows brighter,
Silver pouring onto your skin like a blessing whispered by the night itself.
Feel the light filling you,
Your chest expanding,
Your shoulders lifting,
Your breath deepening.
You are the keeper of your own dawn.
You are the lantern in the dark.
You are the spark that survives the longest night and rises,
Brighter than ever before.
Let this truth wrap around your entire being,
Your heart,
Your breath,
Your future,
Your becoming.
Slowly begin to walk back through the trees.
Notice how the forest seems brighter now,
As though carrying your light forward.
The snow glows faintly beneath your feet.
The air feels softer.
Your breath feels steadier.
With each step,
Bring awareness back to your physical form.
Your fingers,
Your toes,
Your chest rising and falling.
Take a deep breath in and let it go.
Feel your body where it rests now in your room.
Feel the surface beneath you.
Feel the quiet inside your heart.
And when you are ready,
Gently open your eyes.
The solstice has turned.
The light has returned.
And so have you.
