Dark nights by the fireside
As the days shorten and the old Celtic year slips into its darker half, something ancient stirs in the bones of this land. The Celts understood this season as a time of return — a return to the hearth, to story, to stillness and to soul.
After months shaped by daylight — the work of the fields, the harvest gathered, the outdoor world calling us into its activity — the darker months invited the tribe to come back to the fire. This was the season when people rested muscles worn from labour, shared food hard-won from the earth, and listened to the wisdom-keepers speak of the mysteries, the ancestors, and the hidden things that can only be heard in winter’s quiet.
A Time of deepening
It was never considered to be a season to be endured, but and essention part of the whole cyclical underpinning of life. It was considered a season of deepening.
And I wonder whether, beneath all our modern lights and deadlines, our souls still know this rhythm.
There are seasons when we are outward-facing: serving, tending, leading, responding, carrying the responsibilities placed in our hands and these seasons matter. They shape communities and change lives. But they cannot — and should not — be constant.
Even the most faithful servant needs a hearth to return to. and even the most outwardly devoted life needs a hidden centre where the flame is tended.
This is the invitation of the darker months:
To gather around the inner fire and to let the noise settle, to hear the stories that rise from within and to remember who we are beneath the roles and responsibilities.
The Celts spoke of this winter turning as a threshold — more of a doorway than an ending.. When the world grows quieter, the soul can grow clearer. When the outer light lessens, the inner light often glows more steadily. And when we allow ourselves to rest, reflect, and listen, we discover that wisdom is still whispering at the edges of our consciousness.
Perhaps this is the quiet truth this season asks of us, that we dont serve endlessly without tending the flame that fuels our service. You see, we cannot give light without receiving light and simply must allow ourselves the space to be led by the Spirit within if we wnat to lead with wholeness and integrity in tasks to whihc we are called.
So as the year turns, perhaps we might learn to honour the darker half with gratitude rather than frustration. Perhaps we can lear to think of it as sanctuary rather than a something to be endured until the lighter nights return. Maybe we can choose, quite deliberately to become a little more spacious inside as we enjoy the warmth of the hearthside.
The Celts gathered around the fire to remember who they were.
We gather around the inner flame to remember whose we are.
And in that remembering, the light returns — quietly, steadily — ready for the next turning of the year.