A Wordless Solstice and Gentle Joy

A college English professor once wryly asked me if I had a “constitutional inability to be brief.” Apparently my reflection piece crossed his internal boundary for “write enough to respond in full.”

What could I say? Never give a deep thinking, sensitive person permission to say all that she has to say unless you’re prepared for a voluminous response. I always have something to say, and it will always be thorough.

So, I surprised myself by writing nothing at all on winter solstice.

Ordinarily this is a time where I write pages and pages in my journal, often several times over the course of the day. Reflections. Gratitude for the gentle joys that I’ve experienced in the past year. Dreams for what may be born as the light returns.

The words usually feel pulled forth from deep within me on the solstice. Not this year.

But my voice, the voice of my body, my emotions, and my spirit, rang out clearly even without words.

My intuition led me outside, my body cooling as the sun faded behind the mountains. A rare clear December night spread with stars, anchoring me into the vastness of space and time.

Staring at the sky, I wove myself into the echo of generations who have given thanks for the turning of the wheel, the hope of growth still to come. My heart ached with the beauty of palest white frost showing the delicate intertwining of bare branches and fallen leaves.

My body shivered but loosened with a sigh, resting in a seasonal ritual of interconnection with all of nature.

A sigh that was brief enough to capture my response in full.

My wordless solstice: a lesson in allowing instead of planning. 

Trusting my process moment by moment, trusting myself beyond rituals or habits or shoulds.

And yes, that time under the solstice stars was itself a gentle joy. I’ll treasure the memory (both in my body and in these words that I craft around it) of stillness, of being rooted to the frozen ground while my spirit was drawn to the cosmos, of feeling perfectly at home in myself and the universe.

I’m grateful that I’m learning to trust that there is a time for words and a time for other forms of storytelling. I’m thankful to be discovering how to lean into whatever ways my voice and my gentle joy show up.

It’s far easier than trying to orchestrate, plan, and manage my way through every moment of my life.

As you contemplate how you’ll spend this winter season, consider making space for gentle joy to show up in a variety of ways, invited and spontaneously.

Being pleasantly surprised is the beautiful outcome when we bring curiosity and opportunity to our lives, making space for the unexpected.