12/21/2025
Before clocks and calendars, the Celts read the year in breath and bone.
At the winter solstice—the sun reached its deepest hush, pausing at the dark’s edge. Fires were kindled not to banish night, but to midwife the light back into the world.
Holly and yew stood as sentinels between life and death; oak waited, unborn, in the root. This was a threshold time, when ancestors drew near, when promises were whispered to the returning sun, when hope was not loud but enduring.
The solstice was never a victory over darkness—
it was a vow made inside it.
