Simple Ceremonies: A Midwinter Reflection on Trust, Tenderness, and the Return of Light

My feet feel icy against the concrete as I stand on the porch and watch the sunrise unfold across the rolling Oregon hills. Mt. Hood rests quietly in the distance, timeless and unmoved, while ribbons of color stretch slowly across the sky. Light reaches from leaf to limb, touching everything in its path, reminding me how deeply it awakens us, even when we rarely pause long enough to notice.

Light touches our skin and our bodies soften.
It brushes a cheek and the corners of our mouths lift.
It enters the eyes and something inside loosens, remembering ease.

Sunlight carries a quiet authority.

It arrives without fanfare. It asks for nothing. It offers itself again and again, faithful in its generosity.

This winter feels especially dark. Not because of snow or storms, but because of the emotional weather moving through the human world. Anger, sorrow, fear, and exhaustion ripple beneath daily life. There is a heaviness that lingers in conversations and settles into our nervous systems. Many people are carrying far more than they’ve ever held.

You can sense it everywhere.

In the way voices tighten.
In the way shoulders stay lifted.
In the way even small decisions feel weighted.

It’s as though a smile or laughter is some kind of betrayal to the current circumstance.

So many hearts feel worn. Not only from effort, but from uncertainty, division, and the constant demand to adapt and endure. There is a quiet longing for something dependable, something that does not fracture or shift beneath our feet.

And still, the sun rises.

That simple truth settles into my body like warmth.

Candlemas and Imbolc draw near, marking the midpoint of winter. Beneath the frozen ground, seeds soften. Roots lengthen. Life begins its invisible preparation for emergence, even while the fields appear dormant.

We cannot see this labor, yet we recognize it.

This recognition lives in the body, not the intellect. It hums in the marrow. It stirs ancient memory. Something within us understands the turning long before language arrives.

For thousands of years, people across cultures have felt this same feeling.  In this narrow threshold of winter, candles are lit. Water and seeds are blessed. Prayers are whispered into cold air. For various reasons, we gather in reverence, not because life feels simple, but because it does not.

Our prayers and intentions live amid hardship, upheaval, hunger, and uncertainty. Still, the sun returns. Still, the earth loosens. Still, green life prepares to rise again.

The world itself always leans toward renewal.

And in moments when human life feels relentless, the natural world offers something deeply reassuring: continuity. The seasons keep their rhythm. The sun keeps its path. Growth continues its quiet work, regardless of turmoil or fear.

There is comfort in that constancy.

It settles the breath.
It softens the jaw.
It reminds the heart that it belongs to something vast and enduring.

Standing here in the cold, I feel my shoulders lower. My breath slows. The inner noise dims. The light does not solve anything, yet it restores a sense of belonging that feels essential.

The world remains tender.
People remain vulnerable.
Grief and confusion still move through our days.

And the sun continues its patient return.

Perhaps this is the deeper invitation of Candlemas and Imbolc. Not to reach for optimism, but to rest inside assurance. To remember that warmth finds its way back. That beauty persists. That care and kindness continue to rise, even after seasons of contraction.

We are human. Fragile. Contradictory. Tender. Searching. We falter. We wound. We misunderstand. We also love fiercely, long deeply, and yearn for connection and safety. When given space to breathe, the best of us dances into being with surprising grace.

Like the seeds beneath the frozen soil, something within us is already softening.

Life gathers itself, even now.

And that is enough to lean into.

A Simple Candle Ritual for This Season

Light a candle at dawn or dusk.

Sit quietly and let your eyes rest on the flame.

Place one hand on your heart and one on your belly. Feel the rise and fall of your breath.

Softly speak:

Light returns.
Warmth returns.
Gentleness returns.
And I belong to this turning.

Say it again, feeling the words of belonging.

Light returns.
Warmth returns.
Gentleness returns.
And I belong to this turning.

Yes, you belong to this turning.

Take a few breaths more.

When ready, extinguish the flame slowly or let it burn softly, carrying its quiet presence into your day.