Quietly, we stand outside and feel the darkness of the season around us. We have to use our imaginations a bit, because we’re in a townhouse complex in the middle of the city, but it is dark enough and what snow remains is an insulating blanket pushing us to draw within.
We hang the gifts for the tiny souls in the branches of the trees in our yard, all the more cognisant this year what that means as we think of our son, sleeping upstairs. The essence of new life, returning on the wind from the West, waiting in turn for their time.
From the West and from the Ancestors they bring blessings, filling the tree with them. Chirping like birds, they settle in, here and everywhere, flowing and floating with the wind. Anticipatory fullness. Hope in darkness.
When it is time, my husband cuts a small branch from the tree, a small branch imbued with blessings. Blessings from the Ancestors, carried on the wings of renewed souls, blown by the West wind, in the branches of the World Tree, to us.
We step over the threshold together.
“Growth, tradition, and abundance.”
The lunar year begins, and Solstice Tide also.