Winter invites me to coil into myself. It is the deepest of the depths, the caverns of the dark underbelly of the universe. The dark caves with etches of ancient markings. The bones of my soul, the essences of my ancestors, the transmission of lineage beyond space and time, the threads that embed and inform my very cells. 

Winter beckons us to go deeper and calls us to rest. What is the invitation of the dark? What am I afraid of? How can I lean back into the support of my truth, what I view as sacred, into my own inner knowing? How can I tap into the deep intuition of my very cells? Winter invites us to learn to see in the dark. 

I had a dream once, or maybe it was a vision. I was standing on the back of an alligator moving down the river of fear in the underworld. It was so dark and I was so afraid. I can’t see! I can’t see! I was gripping with terror. Then the alligator spoke to me. She said, you are looking in the wrong place for the light. It is here, reflected on the surface of the water. It is illumination, lunar, a different quality than the radiance of solar light. Look at the water, let your subtle eyes shift. This is the vision of the dark. You only need the smallest light to see. This Inanna-esque vision helped me to learn how to see in the dark. The light is different down there. If I can take a breath and lean back into my cells, into a different kind of knowing, I can see. It is a seeing that happens from my bones and my guts, perhaps it is more a felt sense of sight, a body vision, rather than from my eyes. It’s as if I have eyes all over my body. Have you ever seen those images of buddhas with eyes everywhere? I wonder if they were born of the dark. 

Then Solstice comes. A sliver of light, a flicker. A tiny flame that I can hold up. It’s as if the stars themselves hand me a lantern. With this small light, I can hold it up and start to read the inscriptions on the cavern walls. There are no shortcuts. I have to already be down there, surrendered to the restful, quiet, powerful darkness for this to work. The wise, crone-mother of winter is the dark goddess of immortality. She is ancient, fierce, yet nutritive, protective and gestational. She holds us in her steady gaze. She asks us to surrender to generative rest. To cocoon in a hibernatory pod, even if we can’t stop our work in the world due to social norms and constraints, she demands of us to find a way, small ways, perhaps simple small ways to gestate. How can I slow down while moving at the same speed? How can I pause? Am I consciously engaging with my breath? How can I lean back no matter what position I'm in? How can I live in active stillness?  

Water is the winter elemental. The dual nature of water rules our kidneys, bladder, sexual energy, adrenals, reproductive system, bones, ears, balance, and is the furnace that ignites metabolic life. The very essences of our being, our water element is equivalent to our vitality and longevity.

The zhi is the lunar soul of water, it is the application of our will of life itself. In health, it is in alignment with the inspiration of the solar radiance of our shen (spirit), insight, consciousness and inspiration.  When we cozy up and befriend rest, when we get to know it and let it in, our essences can gestate and generate; a negentropic state that counters the normative entropic values of aging and decline. A  question bubbles to the surface now. What does rest mean to me? And how can I implement and honor that in simple, sustainable ways in my daily life? 

I thought the earth

remembered me, she

took me back so tenderly, arranging

her dark skirts, her pockets

full of lichens and seeds. I slept

as never before, a stone

on the riverbed, nothing

between me and the white fire of the stars

but my thoughts, and they floated

light as moths among the branches

of the perfect trees. All night

I heard the small kingdoms breathing 

around me, the insects, and the birds 

who do their work in the darkness. All night

I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling

with a luminous doom. By morning

I had vanished at least a dozen times

Into something better. 

-Mary Oliver, Sleeping in the Forest