Winter Solstice 2022: let go, let be, let rise

At Yule, the winter solstice, we are invited to lean into the ease of the dark – to winter. Which is to say to allow, to consciously relax any grasping to what we are attaching to about the year past or approaching. To be instead of do – to do without attachment. To move with the season, slowly, deeply, without hurry or clinging.

One of the reasons the winter holidays can feel so agitating is that the rush and bustle and mad purchasing pressure is the opposite of what this time of the year is asking of us, is inviting us into. So maybe the best we can do is find pockets of respite, of leaning into the dark and letting the winter do its work on us, in us, with us. Or maybe we can find whole hours, whole days or nights, of allowing ourselves to move at the pace of the slowing season, to breathe deeply into the dark within and sense where it is connected to the dark without, the sweet and gentling and lush with possibility dark.

It is of course not true that nothing is happening in this season, though it resists our socialized capitalistic concepts of productivity. But as always, how we move is as important or more important than the movement itself. So on this holiday, we practice open manifestation, bringing about our truest desires by making space and allowing, rather than inventing or making.

On a piece of paper, divide a circle into three sections.

 In one, write “let go.” In this space, you will place language, images, representations of what you will let be released, what wants or needs to clear, dissipate, be relinquished.

In another, write “let be.” In this space, you will place language, images, representations of what you will simply allow to exist, what wants to simmer, hum, hang out at the edges, marinate, brew.

In the third, write “let rise.” In this space, you will place language, images, representations of what you will allow to come into existence, what you will make space for, let bloom or emerge or come into focus and into relationship with your life.

At each segment, get very quiet. Still your body, lengthen your breath, feel the dark within echoed in the dark without, the dark without echoing in the dark within. Feel a sense of curiosity about what to let go, let be, let arise and let that curiosity lead.

Once you’ve filled in the three sections, pull a card at each, asking what can be your winter guide as you let go, let be, and let rise. Draw a fourth card to lay at the center of the circle to be your key, to lead you in the synthesis of these forces as we move into the dark of the year.

Close the activity in any way that feels right to you.

Maybe you want to visualize each segment coming to life, seeing what will go, go; seeing what will be, be; seeing what will rise, rise.

Or maybe you want to stand at each segment make a gesture or movement for each; a letting go gesture, a letting be gesture, a letting rise gesture.

In any case, when you feel it complete, feel into a sense of gratitude to the dark, the slowing cold, the body that carries you through it, the spirit that enlivens that body, the divine that is always around and inside and everywhere with us and in us and of us.

let the light in: spring equinox 2021

Does all beginning require chaos? And does all chaos have beginning in it? When we see chaos all around or within us, are we seeing incoherence or incomprehensibility? When I say “the unified self” I mean the self cohered and coherent to itself. Is the self ever comprehensible, fully, to the self? Unlikely. But to say that the self, the driver of this bone and meat machine, is unknowable or not worth seeking to cohere into knowability, is to turn away from the divine in us – and to let the chaos win. To remain in a state of only possibility and swirling not-yetness. This is the great stall and cursed trump card of perfectionism: to make us think, it will never be perfect and therefore never done, so why begin at all? How about a little distraction and despair as a reward for all this circuitous striving?

An answer: Embrace the chaos but do not fall in love with it. Refuse to accept it as an end state by naming it seed, necessary burn, phase to which we return and return as we molt and grow and emerge and emerge and emerge.

An answer: Fall in love with the chaos but only for a moment. Give her everything you’ve got for a night or a week or a year. Surrender to the storm until you’re soaked to the core, saturated to the groundwater level so you can slake your own thirst for years to come. Then step out into the sun.

It’s the spring equinox and the light is out and gracing everything. Even the shadows exist because of and in gratitude to the light. The world and ourselves don’t have to be comprehensible to cohere, to come together in a kind of unified multiplicity. I don’t have to know what the bird’s song means to be made whole by it, any more than I have to understand how to turn and plane a board to adore the woodwork of these windows, any more than I have to know who you are, your full name and first desires, to be grateful and elated you exist.

The part of the tree torn away by the storm will only become apparent when the leaves fill in. It is too large to grow back in my lifetime. I will never stop mourning what I’ve lost, but I will make a home for it among the new blooming. We will never be what we were again, and that is a fact we can use to salt the earth or our food, use for ruin or nutrient.

Every time I have been remade I’ve chosen to come back softer. It may be different for you. Still, I recommend this: to remain tender to the world’s and your becoming. To let the light in.

The Lovers / Dispatch from the Wild Interior

Dispatch from the Wild Interior: The Lovers: What would it take for you to become enamored, enraptured, unconditionally in love with your life as it is right now? What grace that you gift to your human beloveds could you extend to your existence and all it requires and offers? What does your spirit know about desire that you have forgotten or stashed away and labeled temptation, danger, high voltage, keep away? At the end of every branch is another branch or the possibility of a branch. Every root extends into another root or the possibility of a root. Toward what does your spirit reach up, toward what deep does it reach down? What might happen if you gave yourself fully and completely over to that which you most powerfully desire? How can that surrender be rooted utterly in love?

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Judgement / Dispatch from the Wild Interior

Judgement: The good news is the same as the bad news, which is that everything is in flux. Everything is transforming now, every instant a rebirth, all the cells falling off your body like stars or the nutrients of stars, every breath a rocket and a dying. Maybe you think there is no time for collapse or fundamental shedding, but apocalypse doesn’t care about your calendar – its terrible beauty arrives on its own feet, out of its own time. Can you welcome it with a dance or steaming mug of broth? A moaning accordian solo or a plant you grew from seed? For the kind of grace that’s descending, there is no adequate preparation except to practice seeing beyond, seeing through, ripping down the curtains of delusional comfort and practical illusion. The end is here. The end is the beginning. The beginning is here. The beginning is the end.

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Ace of Pentacles / Dispatch from the Wild Interior

Dispatch from the Wild Interior: Ace of Pentacles: Every beginning requires its own sort of balance. Is the coin on which you sit spinning or pulsing? Does it need you to hold tighter or dance? Are the clouds clearing or gathering, headed toward or coming from the trees? When a flower is in full bloom it is also launching its process of going to seed, of dying to become something multiply new. What is contained in the bud and blossom of this instant, waiting to be pollinated and dropped to the waiting loam? Everything’s a little bit on fire in its own manner -- even the atmosphere, even the future. Even you.

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2 of Swords

Dispatch from the Wild Interior: Two of Swords: Where two options intersect is where the mystery begins. A life divided into sections is tidy but intolerably limiting. How can you bring your vast and multiple intelligences to bear on the choices at hand? Look with the mind, not with the eyes. The unknown is not your enemy, but a porthole, a window, an invitation to invent the north star you expected to be handed, which has never appeared or used to be clear but has slid behind a bank of clouds. A mirror held up to the moon gives the appearance of two moons but does not double the mystery. Double down on the mystery. Dig into the enigma. The choosing is as holy and important as the choice.


 

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Page of Pentacles -- Dispatch from the Wild Interior: December 5, 2020

Page of Pentacles: Follow what glows. What calls to your halo and feels like a wide open field or yard or room that makes you want to move your body in ways that shake off the dust, as if you’d never felt shame. Make of your heart a dancing beast and follow their lead. There’s no shortage of sky, we just have to remember to tip our heads back to observe and absorb it. It’s possible to hold the sun in your palm so long as you’re occupying the version of your body that has never been burned, has no fear of the heat. So be that, do that, cup the source of all light in your hand and invite it to lead you in this dance.

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King of Pentacles -- Dispatch from the Wild Interior December 3, 2020

King of Pentacles: The work determines how you rule it. The apple chooses the knife, the sapling its portion of sun, and your labors will tell you how to fuel and when to reap and when to sow should you choose to listen. Not all labor looks to the world like labor. A composer gazing at the highway could be drafting a symphony from the passing traffic, a president playing with her dog could be renavigating a negotiation with China. What would your work look like, feel like, be, if you were to stand fully in your mastery of it? If you were to know yourself its king?

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The Devil -- Dispatch from the Wild Interior: December 2, 2020

The Devil: Even temptation can be a teacher. What could you love into annihilation? And in what ways is that annihilation a door? What did you have to endure to get here? What tests have you already passed? The trick is to learn to discern hunger from hunger, bondage from lock, trouble from transfigurative enmeshment. For us humans, the only way out of the body is through the body and it’s not always pretty or pleasant. Watch out for bruises masquerading as roses, predators disguising themselves as gardeners or angels. Your innate holiness brought you here, and your holiness will bring you home.

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The Hermit -- Dispatch from the Wild Interior

The Hermit: Some would have you believe you need their affirmation to survive. This is a lie. What you need is a light to live by. A beacon of your own creation, fueled by your little eternal spark of the divine. Every other fire is fleeting, a spotlight with someone else’s hand on the switch. Any gauge or guide that can’t be made sacred is propaganda, a lure away from ultimate, interior, transfiguring truth. Away from absolute you.

 

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9 of Pentacles -- Dispatch from the Wild Interior

9 of Pentacles: Now that the fruit is ripe on the vine, what will you do with it? And then what will you do with yourself? We think of beginnings as being full of surprise and delight, but so are conclusions when we let them. The part of you with feathers – what does it know about the emerging world that your striving mind does not? How much of the wind passing through is the breathing of nearby trees and how much a smoke signal from the east? Where does your body go when you close your eyes? What is still percolating there in the dark without time?

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8 of Swords -- Dispatch from the Wild Interior: November 25, 2020

8 of Swords: Metamorphosis is also a kind of stability. A becoming through blindness. How you approach your transfiguration is everything. Are the weapons surrounding you a defense or a threat? Is the red you perceive the thready emanation of your thundrous heart? A binding come loose? A portion of the blood moon pared away and sent down to you? All your becoming is sacred, whether or not you name it that. Not all cages are crucibles, but this one is. And you, rising like smoke through the roof of it.


 

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Temperance! Dispatch from the Wild Interior: November 23, 2020

Temperance: Let those who can see only one world live in their singularity. For you, the flowers have voices, the stars a song. For you, this world is not a room with a locked door but a cup spilling water into another cup but never running dry. A porous cube in which every cell could be a portal. This does not mean you intend or want to leave, just that you’re aware that this this is not all the this there is. This minute fleeting and infinite, you eternal and mortal, crowned and grounded, seeking and satisfied, holding nothing that could hold you here and choosing anyway to stay.

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6 of Wands! Dispatch from the Wild Interior: November 22, 2020

6 of Wands: What the world sees as victory and what feels like a victory within are often two different things. Winning is a middle, not an end; in the middle of every victory sit the seeds of the next. What can you celebrate today that is even an inch higher than basic survival? What have you conquered just to be here with your capacity for jubilation intact? Exult in that. Ride into town on its good back.


 

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The Emperor! Dispatch from the Wild Interior: November 21, 2020

The Emperor: You will know you have won when your safety requires no armor or weapon. But this victory is for the world, to lift rather than subdue, to give wings rather than strap on shackles. When yellow and blue unite to make green, we don’t speak of a loss but an evolution, something new. This is how it is with you and your rule. What needs your dominion, which is to say your powerful service and care? For what or whom will you part the clouds, and the sea, and the mountains, because you can and you will and you do?

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Dispatch from the Wild Interior: November 19, 2020

2 of Wands: When you are of two minds, the best thing to do is close your eyes. Feel into each side: forest fire or tundra, the world between and the water below. Often, the third choice is both, all, the divided selves forming a whole. Will the branch hold? Can it bear the weight of all your becoming? Maybe your perch has become perilous for a reason: to induce you to lift off for higher places, or to sink for a time into the waters beneath. The only way to know is to follow your smart body wherever it wants to go.

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Dispatch from the Wild Interior: November 18, 2020

Page of Pentacles: There are stones that when we happen upon them make of us whole mountains. And mountains that remind us every stone was once part of a greater whole. What that you possess would you not trade for anything? When did you find it, and how do you keep it safe? A day spent in contemplation of beauty could never be a wasted day. Today is a good day to find a garden on which to gaze. Do you remember when it didn’t matter what you made, only who you were? The stone only cares how it’s held, not how much the holder believes it’s worth. Only wants to be seen and known as part of something larger, and also in and of itself complete.

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Dispatch from the Wild Interior: November 16, 2020

King of Pentacles: An apple split in half is still an apple. A king without a throne is still a king. Over what are you sovereign, whether or not that sovereignty is affirmed by the world? What grounds you in your inborn, innate power? What reminds you of your godparts, all the starstuff spangling the red in your veins? Feel how your heart opens when you open your wings. That’s the posture of a king.

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Dispatch from the Wild Interior: November 14, 2020

7 of Wands: You also have the option of putting the wand down and giving your arms a break. What is growing will continue to manifest even if today’s choice is a pause, a rest, a loosening of the grip. No good magic comes from grasping. You’ve been hanging on for so long that the branch has started to grow around your hands. What amount of play can you introduce into the picture? How can today’s choosing feel less like a chore and more like a dance? Less like a task and more like a treasure hunt? Less like a test and more like opening the book you’ve been meaning to read for years and finding your name on the first page?

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Dispatch from the Wild Interior: November 13, 2020

Page of Cups: What delights have you been denying yourself behind the idea that smallness or sameness or seriousness will keep you safe? An ocean of pleasure awaits, but only if you’re open to new roads to the shore. Or old overgrown paths marked by code you invented in childhood and made yourself forget. Given the choice between a chalice and a mug, choose the one with mystery in it, where you can’t see the bottom or the shape makes you think something inside might be alive. What inside you is alive but isolated, caged, shushed, undreamed? Drink up. Set them free.

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